Wizard and Zanpakuto
by Oreramar
Summary: While fighting Aizen, Ichigo makes a sacrifice, becoming a zanpakuto. When he survived the killing curse, Harry's soul was disconnected from his body, becoming a shinigami. Every sword needs a wielder. Every warrior needs a sword.
1. Chapter 1

"The important thing is this: To be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become."

-_Charles Dubois_

* * *

Cut off from time and space, existing in a dimension purely its own and only loosely connected to the other worlds, the King's Realm was meant to be untouchable by the cares of earth and the various Soul Societies. It ruled from a higher plane, and although there always had existed ways to reach it from the worlds below, somehow it maintained a certain distance through the ages.

Until that time, _this_ time.

Now – if there could be a _now_ in a place that was everywhere and everywhen at once – explosions rocked the white palace walls and clouds of dust filled its long corridors, masking the violent motions of battle within. Screams rose high in the air, some of them horribly, painfully human, others somehow less than the meanest, harshest of animals. Bulky creatures that had wandered out of a nightmare – out of the gates of Hell themselves – snarled and writhed and leapt from the shadows at the defenders of the King's Realm – shinigami, the zero guard, the rare arrancar. Enemies clashed, struggled for a moment, perhaps a bit longer if they were evenly matched, and then suddenly one fell to the ground and the other stood straight, shook off or flicked away the blood, and hurried off to the next foe. It was brutal, it was fast, it was chaotic.

It was war, and it had reached the King's Realm.

The white walls and floor suddenly quaked and rumbled with the sound of a far-off explosion, dislodging loose chunks of stone and mortar and throwing the fighters off-balance for just a moment. Then, following the quaking like one wave behind the last, a viciously oppressive reiatsu crashed down upon the senses of those doing battle, paralyzing them for just a moment before its weight lightened just enough to move, just enough to breathe.

Those who recovered first made sure that they would live just a moment longer than the enemies that did not.

The battle went on, but even in its midst, several of the scattered warriors took a moment to lift their heads and murmur a name, softly, like a prayer they could not or dare not finish.

"_Ichigo_…"

* * *

Like so many other places in the palace, dust filled the air in the large, rectangular antechamber just before the throne room. Huge cracks marred the once-perfect white stone walls and polished floor, and more than one of the pillars which had lined the hall like trees had been shattered and now lay across the ground in rough, uneven pieces.

The dust was settling slowly to the ground, and soon a figure came into view, standing on thin air in a loose, cautious stance. His death-white skin blended into the background – the only features which made him visible were the sweeping red markings across his chest and face, his black hakama, and his orange hair. A long black katana was clenched in his right fist, and as he turned his head, searching the cloud of dust across the floor, a pair of forwards-curving horns jutting from the fragments of bone mask on his face caught the room's omnipresent light.

"Kurosaki Ichigo."

He snapped his head around and downwards, training his gold-and-black eyes on the figure that was just becoming visible through the haze.

"I must say, I'm rather disappointed," the voice continued. "Was that truly the strongest attack you are capable of? Was that the extent of your pseudo-_resurreccion_'s powers? Look at me. You hardly did more than singe my coat."

The dust had cleared by then, and the man standing on the ground was fully visible. His face smiled softly, but his eyes held a hard, mocking quality in their depths that belied any kindness one might find in his appearance. His right hand held a green-hilted katana loosely, while his left gestured toward a splotch of black on his white overcoat – the singed area he had just referred to.

Meeting the eyes of the young man standing above him, Aizen lowered his hand slowly.

"You have grown stronger, Kurosaki, do not misunderstand me. The fact that you could mark even this much is testament of that. However, if that truly was the best you could do, and when I have yet to release my sword's shikai, then even you must understand that this battle is hopeless. Stand down, Kurosaki. There is no reason for a human to die in Soul Society's battle."

"_Shut up_," Ichigo snarled. His voice echoed slightly around the edges, distorted by his hollowfication. "This isn't about Soul Society_._"

Aizen regarded Ichigo calmly.

"I see," he said. "So you want revenge, then? You want to kill me for Karakura? How very…_hollow-like_, to follow your base instincts that way."

"That won't work, Aizen," Ichigo insisted, and he shifted suddenly into a wider stance, readying his blade for an attack. "I've accepted it already. You can't break my resolve like that anymore."

Without warning, Ichigo's pale form flickered and vanished with a buzzing snap of energy. Aizen's gaze shot to one side, and in an instant he had casually blocked Ichigo's blow with the sword in his hand.

"You don't deny it is revenge, then?"

Ichigo gritted his teeth and pressed harder. Zangetsu trembled against Kyoka Suigetsu, but with little other effect.

"Hmph. Weak."

Aizen suddenly pressed back, sweeping his blade to the side. The force was incredible; Ichigo barely managed to right himself so that his feet met the wall rather than the back of his head. A spiderweb of cracks spread out around him.

With a hollow scream, he launched himself at his enemy once again.

The stone shattered and rained down upon the floor.

As the battle continued, Ichigo felt his frustration mounting. Aizen blocked every strike one-handed – at one point he had even gone so far as to casually side-step a black _getsuga tenshou_, leaving the attack to carve a new canyon in the white floor and opposite wall. If it hadn't been obvious before, the truth of the situation was glaring into Ichigo's face now; Aizen was toying with him. Nothing was really stopping the man from striding over to the tall golden doors at the far end of the chamber, breaking the energy seal that quivered over them, and passing through – nothing except for a faint curiosity in Ichigo's natural abilities and, perhaps, a desire for some form of entertainment.

If Ichigo couldn't surprise him, land a killing blow before Aizen's interest waned…

He felt his hollow stir within his mind, adding its own powerful rage to his. Nobody messed with them. Nobody _toyed_ with them. _They were stronger than this_.

Snarling and ignoring the pain of a newly-earned gash in his side, Ichigo flash stepped to a point just above and behind Aizen, anticipating and even welcoming the jarring sensation of Zangetsu clashing with Kyoka Suigetsu once again. Aizen turned his head just a little, tilting it back and opening his smiling mouth to say something.

Ichigo gathered all his power, all his rage, mixing it with his hollow's and with Zangetsu's and snarling two words between the fragments of his mask.

"_Getsuga Tenshou!_"

A black dome, edged in red, burst out of the point where their swords crossed. It swallowed both figures completely, and the explosion shook the room.

When the reiatsu cleared, the chamber resembled little more than a vaguely rectangular wasteland. Every pillar in the room had shattered completely. Most of the walls were little more than jagged, gaping holes which opened to other rooms, other halls, many of these also damaged by the explosive attack. Only the wall which held the golden doors, the wall that separated them from the throne room, remained conspicuously intact.

It was in front of these doors that Ichigo stood, his feet planted wide, his shoulders sloped, panting raggedly. A crack spread across his mask's left lower jaw, and tiny shards of bone fell from it, only to vanish before they could strike the floor. Sparing just a moment, he searched inside his mind for the hollow.

It was there, and it was stubborn, but it was tired as well. It would keep pressing its power through him, but much longer, much more, and it would collapse, utterly spent.

Then, they would all die.

The hollow snarled at the thought and pushed more power out. The crack in the mask sealed itself shut, as did the deep wound in his side.

Not _that_ easy, they wouldn't. No way. Not _that_ easy, King.

Ichigo turned his attention outward again, focusing on the figure standing hardly more than twenty feet away from him.

Aizen was examining something on his left hand, and with a jolt of something like triumph, Ichigo realized that the man's entire sleeve was streaked with wet, glistening red.

"_Keep your focus, Ichigo,"_ a deep voice resounded from his soul. "_It is still a hard battle ahead."_

"_What're ya waiting for, King?" _This voice was higher, wilder, full of the insanity of war. "_Get 'im, now!_"

But Ichigo held back for just another moment.

Aizen looked up at last, extending his hand toward his hollowfied opponent. Blood dripped from his fingers slowly.

"Better, Kurosaki," the man said. "That attack was far more powerful than the last few. In fact, I am rather curious now as to why the same attack name released such a different form. Unfortunately, it seems I might not be able to sate my curiosity right away. Time grows short, after all, and I have a throne to take."

"Like _hell_ you do," Ichigo replied, straightening. "You're staying right here, Aizen!"

The brown-haired man lowered his hand, staring Ichigo directly in the eyes. The hollowfied shinigami's glare tightened, and some of his resolve flashed through his gaze, turning the burning gold irises brilliant blue for just a moment. Aizen sighed in disappointment, shaking his head slightly.

"What a shame," he murmured. "You are far too stubborn a boy, Kurosaki. If not for that one trait…"

Suddenly he was gone. Ichigo's eyes widened, the gold in them appearing as surprised specks in a sea of black, and he turned Zangetsu to block, consciously drawing the toughened hollow-skin, the hierro, around his body.

A moment too late.

Blood sprayed through the air, and Ichigo stumbled back, a new wound stretched across his chest and left side. The hollow in his soul jumped up suddenly, pressing his power to the outside, and the gaping slash was sealed shut by instant regeneration. The energy it took was too great, however. If Ichigo took many more hits that vital, his hollowfied form would shatter, and he would be left without its power, a mere shinigami.

Aizen smiled slightly from where he stood, casually sweeping back some loosened strands of hair with his bloodied hand.

"I would have been more than happy to let you live."

"_We'll show _him_ 'let live,'"_ the hollow in Ichigo's soul muttered. At that moment, however, Ichigo wasn't exactly inclined to agree.

Aizen was powerful; he had known that ever since their first meeting on Sougyoku hill, when the man had blocked Tensa Zangetsu with a single finger before vanishing into Hueco Mundo. The fact had been further reinforced during the ill-fated Winter Battle, when he had neatly decimated most of Soul Society's elite fighters and left Ichigo half-dead along with them, moving on to destroy Karakura town and create the King's Key. A burning desire, a need, to reach that power was the one thing that had spurred Ichigo on afterwards, through extensive training with the Vaizard to fully control his hollow abilities, through learning at least some rudimentary kido and reiatsu control, and through Hell itself when it was discovered that the last remaining path to the King's Realm was beyond its gates. He had mastered his hollow, gaining a level of power none of the other Vaizard had expected – a _resurreccion_ – and he had finally achieved such close rapport with Zangetsu that one could safely say that neither one wielded the other – they simply _were_ in battle.

To pass through all of that, to temper himself in Hell's own fire, and to come out only to find that Aizen _still_ walked all over him, opened a black pit somewhere in the region of Ichigo's heart.

"_Dammitall, King, pull yourself together!_" the hollow snarled in his mind.

"_It is not hopeless yet, Ichigo_," Zangetsu added, his deep voice reassuring as it echoed through his soul. "_Do not lose your resolve. Fight, and win._"

But how? This was the height of his powers, the absolute most he could draw from Zangetsu and from his hollow, and that still barely enough to cut his enemy, never mind kill him.

Zangetsu and the hollow were silent.

"Interesting conversation, Kurosaki?"

Ichigo blinked and looked up quickly, berating himself. Communication in his soul never took more than a bare moment of time on the outside, but in battle – especially in this battle – a moment could mean his death.

Fortunately, Aizen seemed content to observe him at a distance.

"None of your business," Ichigo retorted, filling his voice with as much insolence as he could manage. "And we're not done here."

"I suppose not," Aizen replied, finally raising his sword, though his stance remained casual. "But I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me, before you die, just what makes your powers so…unusual?"

"Dunno what you're talking about."

Ichigo suddenly leapt forward, swinging Zangetsu at Aizen's neck. The man raised his own katana to block, and at the last moment, Ichigo flash-stepped around his enemy to strike from the other side. Like lightning, Kyoka Suigetsu was there, stopping the black blade short.

"I mean your _ressureccion_," Aizen replied, his tone of voice still appropriate for two acquaintances discussing something over tea. "I was not aware that a Vaizard was capable of such a thing. After all," and he swept his sword to the side, knocking Zangetsu wide and counterattacking with a quick movement of his wrist, "the _resurreccion_ is the full release of the abilities of one who is primarily hollow. A vaizard, which is mostly shinigami, should no more be able to use _resurreccion_ than an arrancar should be able to shape his sword into a shinigami's bankai."

"Sorry. I don't know why I can do this," Ichigo said, though it was only half the truth. He might have had a vague idea as to the reason – his hollow and Zangetsu had tried to explain something about balances, but they lost him right about the time they started to use metaphors. It was as bad as that king-and-horse thing the hollow liked to go on about.

He dodged another lightning-fast strike and flash-stepped back to give himself some room. With a deep breath, he gathered energy in his mask, compressing it just the way his hollow had taught him.

"It's just what I am."

In a quick movement, Ichigo swiped some half-dried blood from his side and touched it to the tips of his mask's curved horns. The energy in them mixed with it, suddenly appearing as a violet orb directly between the horn tips.

For the first time, something like surprise passed through Aizen's eyes.

Dropping his head slightly so that the horns were perfectly aligned with his target, Ichigo ground out the three words that would release the rapidly spinning ball of light.

"_Gran Rey Cero_."

With a sound like space itself being torn apart, the destructive energy burst forward, widening into a cone as it blasted toward Aizen. The traitorous shinigami's expression turned purely serious, and he planted himself in a firmer stance, raising his sword.

Kyoka Suigetsu met Ichigo's espada-level cero, and the groaning of space became louder. The sword shook in Aizen's hands; his eyes widened perceptibly. Shards and rays of violet light, crackling with destructive intent, flew out around him, the pressure of their power making the room shake and bearing down on Aizen's entire body like a vice. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty rose in his mind – perhaps he should have finished the boy immediately, even given him a fatal glimpse of his shikai rather than letting the fight drag on…

The pressure increased, and the stone under Aizen's feet cracked. Determined, the man dug in, leaning his weight into his sword, which he now held in both hands rather than just one. Dimly, even over the sound of the cero and his own reiatsu's crackling, he could hear the boy roaring, a long, hoarse, drawn-out yell as he funneled all his power into the attack.

Then, just as Aizen felt he was at his breaking point, that he would either have to find a way to retreat or he would be overcome, the pressure of the cero wavered.

Aizen immediately pushed the advantage he found, discovered the weak spot in the ray, and broke it.

Shards of violet light exploded outward, fizzling harmlessly out of existence around him.

Aizen shifted his grip on Kyoku Suigetsu, preparing to release it. Then he caught sight of his opponent, and he paused.

Ichigo stood across the room like a puppet with cut strings. He was leaning heavily on Zangetsu, and he trembled visibly. Every breath he drew was strained, hoarse, and, perhaps most importantly, free of the hollow's metallic echo.

As Aizen watched, the fragments of mask that half-covered Ichigo's face crumbled, falling into nothingness. The mane of orange hair appeared to suddenly cut itself from the back of the boy's head, drifting away. The pale, red-striped skin faded and warmed to a more normal hue. And his eyes – his eyes were no longer the burning gold-on-black, but glared at him in a far more human brown-on-white.

Aizen shifted Kyoka Suigetsu back and relaxed. Shikai would be completely unnecessary, after all.

His confidence restored, Aizen turned away from the panting shinigami substitute and proceeded to examine the golden doors that separated him from the king, from victory.

They were tall, _no_, massive, more fit for giants than ordinary men. No handles were visible, nor were there hinges. In fact, the only things which suggested that this was anything more than a simple panel of gold cut into a wall were the hairline crack that ran directly down the center, the narrow gap between the door's bottom and the polished white floor, and the sealing magic that blanketed the entire thing like a shimmering curtain of reiatsu. Markings were carved into the doors, thin lines of runes and script and pictographs from cultures around the world and throughout time – a quick search let Aizen's experienced eyes pick out fragments of kanji now obsolete, of the hiragana script he rarely used, of signs which bore certain resemblance to the writing he was accustomed to but were either from a time long before or long after his own studies of his language.

He smiled to himself, smug and certain now. This power – the power to see and move through time and space, to rule all the worlds absolutely – would be his.

A scraping sound caught his ear, and he turned without concern to see the boy standing unsupported once again, his black katana held in front of him. His eyes were brown, but they still burned, and their message was clear.

Kurosaki would die before he stopped fighting.

A pity. Aizen still had a few more hypotheses concerning the union of hollow and shinigami, and from what he had seen, Kurosaki Ichigo, while not perfect, was the best model of them he had ever come across – far superior to both of his own projects, the vaizard and the arrancar. The side of Aizen that was a scientist would have loved to keep the boy as a test subject of sorts.

If he ever chose to continue his experiments, if he wanted to replicate this fusion of beings, he would have to start completely from scratch.

Such a pity.

"I don't know what you hope to achieve," Aizen said casually, not bothering to fully face Ichigo or to even raise his sword in response to the clear threat being directed at him. "You could not defeat me while at your strongest, and that form is broken now. Why keep trying?"

Ichigo was breathing hard, but he still managed to force strength into his voice.

"Idiot. You're just like all the other enemies I faced, all the others who were _too strong_ for me, who I _couldn't hope to defeat_. But I did it anyway, each and every time. You…you're no different than the rest of them. It's not that I won't stop trying. I was _never_ trying. I just…I WILL beat you!"

Aizen closed his eyes slowly, a calm smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Finally, he turned to face Ichigo and he raised his sword. Then, he opened his eyes again.

"I must say that I find your tenacity strangely admirable, for all that it lacks wisdom. Very well, Kurosaki Ichigo. If you are so determined, I will fight you further. But this time –" Aizen shifted his grip on his katana, holding it point-down and raising it so that the blade was directly before his face – "I won't be holding back."

Ichigo's eyes widened and his legs locked up as though paralyzed. Aizen dropped the sword. He followed its descent helplessly, hearing Aizen say something dim and muffled – dim and muffled because it was hard to hear much of anything over the frantic shouts of Zangetsu and the hollow.

"_Ichigo, watch ou—"_

"—_elease, King, it's his damned relea—"_

"—_eyes, your—"_

"—_ose 'em, cl—"_

"_CLOSE YOUR EYES!"_

Kyoka Suigetsu began to glow with a bright white light, just as Ichigo squeezed his eyes shut and ducked behind one arm. The light flared out, glaring dark red through his eyelids and leaving neon-colored afterimages behind, random spots and lines which slowly faded away.

Cautiously, Ichigo lowered his arm and looked up at Aizen. The man was retrieving the released Kyoka Suigetsu from where it had stuck, point-deep, in the white stone floor, his countenance completely undisturbed.

"So, Kurosaki, what did you think of Kyoka Suigetsu's release? I find it rather too…flashy, myself. Ironic, almost, that such subtle power must be set free with such a vibrant show of energy."

"I didn't see it," Ichigo refuted, more to ease the doubt in his own mind than to argue with Aizen. "I shut my eyes. Sorry."

"Is that so?"

Aizen's smile widened, and he flickered. Ichigo immediately swung Zangetsu behind him, and felt the shudder of steel impacting steel.

"That was shunpo," Ichigo accused, glaring over his shoulder. "It was no illusion. Stop trying to mess with my head – I didn't see your damn release, and that's that!"

"You're right. It was shunpo. But…"

Aizen's form suddenly wavered, becoming transparent, and Zangetsu bit partway through Kyoka Suigetsu. Ichigo blinked, momentarily confused.

"Is this?"

The transparent Aizen abruptly vanished. Ichigo whirled, facing front again and bringing Zangetsu over his shoulder the moment he heard the voice – the voice that was coming from in front of him, not behind.

Aizen moved, bending back slightly so that Zangetsu's tip whistled through thin air in front of him, and then snapped forward, Kyoka Suigetsu slicing through Ichigo's shoulder. Biting back a grunt of pain, Ichigo leapt back, blood falling from the new wound. The cut was deep and it burned; Ichigo swore to himself, but he didn't drop his stance. He'd had worse.

"You were wrong, Kurosaki; you did see Kyoka Suigetsu shatter. This is the end. So come, let us finish this battle."

Ichigo glared at Aizen, cursing inside as he felt the helplessness well up again.

"_Ichigo…it is raining again, Ichigo._"

_Sorry, Zangetsu_. There wasn't much to be done about it.

Ichigo's face settled into its most familiar expression – a deep scowl – and he tightened his grip on Zangetsu's black hilt. Aizen was clearly waiting for his move, waiting to see what _he _would do first. Well, then, he would just have to oblige him – Ichigo wasn't going to just stand there forever, after all…even if it meant playing right into the traitor's hands.

"_Are you so without hope, Ichigo? Is your resolve drowning?"_

His resolve…

He would win. He had to win.

"_You cannot even convince yourself of that, Ichigo._"

Ichigo tensed, and launched into flash-step, trusting his instincts to guide him in battle as half of his mind was turned inward, conversing quickly with his zanpakuto.

"_What must you have to believe in yourself?_"

Ichigo wasn't quite sure how to answer that. Most of his instinct, and even part of his intellect, called out for strength, power, enough to finally defeat this enemy. However, this response was one tied most closely to his hollow side, and though he had mastered and accepted that side of him, certain aspects still made him uneasy.

So instead of devoting more thought there, Ichigo turned his attention outwards again.

Aizen was becoming sloppy with his blocks and attacks; this was probably an illusion, and the real Aizen was elsewhere in the room. Unfortunately, Ichigo couldn't simply abandon his current opponent and search out the source of the trickery – the illusionary sword was still sharp – and he suspected that the traitor knew it.

"_Your own power, perhaps?_"

He had his hollow, but that form had broken, and he couldn't draw the mask out again while it was so exhausted. If that wasn't his own power, if Zangetsu wasn't his own power, what was?

The illusory Aizen finally wavered and broke under his sword, only to be replaced by another Aizen, who might also have been an illusion, but who might not have been, as Ichigo was being pressed backwards this time, forced to defend himself from a rapid barrage of blows.

"_You are not yet as strong as you could be, Ichigo_."

No time, no time for training. This battle was here, it was now, and it was the last stand he could make against Aizen – there was no time to retreat and learn.

He swept Zangetsu through Aizen's midsection, but the illusion shattered even as he did so. A sudden pain spread along his back; he lurched forward and cried out, stumbling as he turned around to instinctively block another strike from behind from another smiling Aizen who, again, may or may not have been a mere image.

"_Fight, Ichigo. Win now, and you need not reach for this power._"

Zangetsu made it sound like he actually had a chance. Ichigo tried to draw strength from that, and felt the helplessness ease a little. The rain was slowing, being replaced by burning sunlight, though it still shone through a thin layer of grey clouds.

The Aizen in front of him seemed hazy around the edges, a little fuzzy, a little out-of-focus. Ichigo swept his sword through what he now knew was an illusion and immediately flash-stepped a distance away to avoid the expected attack from the new false opponent.

It followed, and Ichigo attacked the illusion with a frustrated yell.

How long would Aizen keep this up? Where _was_ he?

"_Falter, and you will have little choice. Look out, Ichigo!"_

Two more hazy-edged Aizens leapt at the young shinigami, both striking at the same time from different directions. Ichigo hastily blocked one blow with his sword and caught the other on the back of his hierro-toughened wrist, wincing as even the illusory blade managed to cut a thin line through his actual skin.

"Quit playing with me!" Ichigo yelled, directing his voice to the room at large as he thrust the illusions away, blasting one through the rubble with a burst of black reiatsu before attacking the other furiously.

There was no satisfaction in destroying the images of Aizen. What he wanted was to find the real one and tear. Him. Apart.

For destroying his home, his world.

Never mind that Inoue was, to the best of his knowledge, currently back in the real world, combining her powers with Hachigen's, her strength with the rest of their friends', trying to reject what happened to Karakura. Even if she succeeded, restoring the town and the lives of those within, Aizen had done too much to those Ichigo held dear, and he threatened to do so much more.

He needed to die.

And this time –

Ichigo viciously beheaded another illusion, scanning the room every chance he got for the telltale haze he had discovered –

This time, Aizen would fall.

The whistle of a blade cutting through the air sounded to his side, and he was too slow in summoning the hierro once again; it sliced open the outside of his right shoulder, scattering blood across the broken floor. Ichigo snarled in a combination of pain and anger, whirling about and blocking a return blow.

Just then, a flicker caught his eye in the direction of the wall with the throne room's doors. Ichigo finished the illusory clone as quickly as he could, flash-stepped randomly to the side to give himself a moment of time, and _looked_.

Another flicker, and it wasn't the curtain-like seal over the doors. It was more like a hazy outline in thin air.

Ichigo felt a predatory grin spread across his face.

"Got ya," he whispered, and then he drew on his power and flash-stepped over, swinging Zangetsu about.

Steel met steel with a ringing crash, and Aizen – the true Aizen – appeared at last. There was a brief hint of surprise on his face which melted quickly and smoothly into calculated cunning.

"Ah, yes…you closed your eyes. I see," he said softly. "Of course. My hypnosis is absolute, but if you do not _fully_ see the release…"

"You had me going for a while," Ichigo confessed, some of his old cockiness beginning to seep back into his bearing, "but I figured it out quick enough. I can still see through your illusions."

"Yet they were able to wound you," Aizen countered with a faintly smug tilt to his smile.

Almost as one, the warriors disengaged their blades, leaping back a short distance. This time, though, Ichigo didn't make Aizen wait for a new attack; yelling, he forced his reiatsu into his blade, and a crescent of dark energy, edged in red, flew across the room, followed closely by the shinigami himself.

Aizen split the energy attack in half and blocked Zangetsu effortlessly. Ichigo pressed down on the blade, locking Kyoka Suigetsu in place as he searched Aizen for an opening, a weak spot…

He was hazy around the edges.

Ichigo swore, spotted an opening – the left side, if he twisted Zangetsu and pressed _like this_ – and sliced through the image as he spun about to block the blow that was sure to be coming in from behind.

Nothing.

And then there was something heavy in his chest, and he looked down to see the silvery tip of a blade, laced with red, protruding from the front of his tattered bankai coat.

The pain followed a bare instant later. Choking suddenly on his own blood, Ichigo twisted his head around to see Aizen behind him – not a hazy image, but the real, solid man – wearing a knowing smirk.

_How?_

He wasn't aware he had spoken aloud until Aizen answered.

"Every one of your senses is in my control. Knowing this, why are you surprised that I could create the illusion of an illusion for you?"

Then, with a cruel turn of his lips, Aizen twisted the katana in Ichigo's chest – despite himself, he cried out in pain – and thrust it sideways through lung and muscle and ribs.

Ichigo collapsed instantly.

The hollow was frantic, holding together shreds of tissue, droplets of blood, shards of bone. It tried to regenerate Ichigo's torn body, it tried so hard, _it didn't want to die_, but there just wasn't enough left. It barely managed to knit the lung together before its presence vanished from Ichigo's mind – sunk into unconsciousness itself, perhaps.

Something cold touched Ichigo's throat, and Aizen's voice fell down from far, far above.

"You fought as well as you could, Kurosaki. I'm not without mercy; I'll make it quick. Besides which," the cold something pressed a little before suddenly retreating and Ichigo realized suddenly that it was a sword, "you seem to have an annoying habit of refusing to simply die."

He could hardly breathe through the blood and there were black spots in his vision and he couldn't even turn his head to face his enemy but he couldn't give up...

He just –

Couldn't –

"_There is no other choice, Ichigo. Now, come."_

The sword above him had begun moving, falling rapidly toward his neck, but then it froze, and Ichigo fell into darkness.

* * *

Slowly, Ichigo opened his eyes, though he didn't remember closing them. A familiar scene stretched around him: tall blue skyscrapers, reflective windows, a grey sky with a speck of sunlight struggling to reach through, all of it turned on its side so that what was supposed to be _up_ was in front of him and what was supposed to be a sheer vertical surface was solidly under his feet.

"Ichigo."

He turned to face the voice and paused in shock.

Usually, Zangetsu stood upon a metal pole set in the side of the building. Now, however, he slumped against that pole, leaning on it with the air of someone who hated appearing so dependant on something else, but too tired to continue fighting it. Stretched out at his feet, face-down and oddly feeble in appearance, was the pure white form of Ichigo's inner hollow.

"What happened? Are we…?"

"No, Ichigo. Not yet. Remember, time is slowed to a near stop while we converse in here."

"So why?"

"Because as events stand now, there is no escape. Kyoka Suigetsu is a bare moment from slicing your throat open. You can do nothing against it without unlocking your true strength."

"I thought I did, already. Are you saying there's more than bankai, or _resurreccion_?"

"No, Ichigo. There is no more."

Groaning, Ichigo ran a hand across the back of his head, gripping the orange spikes there so that he didn't give in to the temptation to slam a fist into the skyscraper at his feet.

"You're just confusing me, old man. I'm literally dying up there – if you know something, tell me!"

"Ichigo," Zangetsu intoned in his most solemn voice yet. Hearing the deeply grave notes ringing through an already impressively stoic tone made Ichigo immediately quiet. "What I am about to tell you is difficult. I once promised myself that I would never speak of it, but the pain in your heart now won't let me keep that vow in good conscience. Ichigo, I'm going to tell you a short tale, and then I will give you a choice. I ask that you think on it very carefully before giving your answer."

Ichigo nodded silently; Zangetsu's serious mood was catching.

"In the past," the sword spirit began, "I was not a zanpakuto, nor was my name Zangetsu. I was a shinigami."

"Wait—_what_?"

"Remember, Ichigo, time cannot be stopped completely. I will explain."

"Ah…sorry, old man."

"I was shinigami, though not in this country. Almost twenty-five years ago, a powerful hollow of Japanese origin appeared near my patrol. It killed several good fighters, including someone…precious to me. Then it ran, heading to your homeland.

"I should have left it for your Sereitei to deal with, but my emotions blinded me. I followed the creature along with a man who was like a brother to me, and we fought it together. It was strong, and I had little faith in my abilities, or my brother's, or even our spirit blades. I knew something then, which I am about to tell you now, and I thought that the power in that knowledge would serve the fight better than mere trust or belief. I thought of it as a crutch, a tool, though I had never used it before.

"The knowledge is this: _any shinigami carries within him the potential to become a zanpakuto, and the strongest being is he who can wield himself_."

Ichigo waited, but Zangetsu remained silent.

"So…so wait, what happened? I mean, I don't really get it. You were a shinigami, and in a fight with a hollow you became a zanpakuto? What about that guy, or your own zanpakuto?"

"They died."

The bluntness of the statement took Ichigo aback.

"I delved into the core of my being without consulting either, without thinking of anything but my own strength and my own pain. When I transformed, my spirit blade…my zanpakuto…was disoriented, and my brother distracted, both for just a moment too long. I killed the hollow, but by then it was too late for them. That is why I allowed myself to immediately die there, why I swore to never speak of my past or the transformation, even to my eventual wielder."

Ichigo wasn't sure what to say. Thankfully, Zangetsu understood, as usual.

"This is the power I have never told you of, Ichigo, and it comes with its price. Listen carefully; we haven't time for me to repeat myself.

"First, a zanpakuto and a shinigami are of one soul, but only because when the shinigami is first born, the zanpakuto which matches his soul best melds with it, creating one being. Ever after, the shinigami fights with the power of his zanpakuto – this power may be great, and the two create a strong whole once bound together, but it is still borrowed.

"Any shinigami may become zanpakuto, but to do so takes a conscious decision, and it is for eternity. If you pursue this and defeat your enemy here, you will live as a zanpakuto spirit, free of a wielder, until you finally die either by age or battle. Then, you will be reincarnated as a being bound to a shinigami master, unable to wield yourself unless he allows it, and you will never forget your past as a normal soul would.

"Do you understand the cost of this decision, Ichigo?"

"Yeah, I think so. I can draw out my own power instead of relying on you, but then I'm taken out of the regular cycle? And I spend the rest of…of time lending power to someone else?"

"Correct."

"…What about you?"

Zangetsu regarded him silently. He still leaned on the post heavily.

"I mean," Ichigo continued, scratching the back of his head, "if I – if I go through with this, where'll you go? A zanpakuto can't have a zanpakuto, can it?"

"I will exist as you do – a spirit independent, masterless, until the day you die. Then I will eventually be reincarnated as another shinigami's zanpakuto. That is all."

"Forever, huh? For the both of us."

"…Unless one thing is done."

"Wha--?"

"Zanpakuto may be set free, allowed to return to the cycle, with the use of their last life's name."

"So, Zangetsu, what was—"

"You do not need to know. Turn your mind back to what is important, Ichigo: what will you do?"

Ichigo craned his neck back and stared up at the faint reflection in the windows above. It was odd, seeing himself as a face over a pair of shoulders and little else. He scowled reflexively, and the mirror-him scowled right back.

"What _can_ I do, old man? You said it earlier – I'm about to die out there. It's either this last chance, or I just give up and let Aizen win. No way. I'll do whatever I have to, even if it means I get stuck in someone else's head for the rest of eternity."

"I thought you might say that, Ichigo. It is why I had to offer the choice in the end."

Ichigo swung his head back down and planted his hands on his hips.

"Right. Tell me what to do."

"Wait…just a min…minute, _King._"

The echoing voice rang with defiance, even though it was clearly exhausted. At Zangetsu's feet, the hollow was struggling to prop his upper body up on his elbows.

"This don't just…concern you…ya know."

This time, Ichigo understood immediately.

"Because we're the same?"

"The same…_HAH!_ Don' compare me to you. We ain't…the _same_…'member? I'm a hollow, you're…shinigami."

"I meant that we're both part of the same soul. Zangetsu…he said that zanpakuto start out separate, their own beings, but they become part of the shinigami. You, though – you aren't like that. You were born from my own fears and my own spirit. So yeah, in a way, we really are the same, huh?"

The hollow had gotten himself up on his elbows, and now contrived to make it appear as though he was lounging contentedly on his side rather than sprawled exhaustedly across the blue glass beneath him. He glared at Ichigo for just a moment with burning yellow eyes. Then a crazy grin split his face in half and he laughed, a high-pitched sound that still set the hairs on the back of Ichigo's neck on end.

"Damn, King, you've gotten a _brain_! Took ya long enough. Che. Yeah, that's pretty much it. You go transformin' your entire being, you gotta take me as well. Then we'll either meld into one, which means ya gotta accept all of me as part of you, or I stay in your head, and ya gotta deal with me without some zanpakuto gettin' in the way all the time. Got it?"

"So you're okay with this?"

The look the hollow gave him was surprise melting into contempt.

"Ya kidding me? I'm not interested in dyin, King. 'Sides, I'm the horse, so s'not like I have a choice, do I?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Ichigo started toward his hollow, and he saw his white copy stiffen slightly in response, the black-and-gold eyes narrowing. "But I thought I'd check anyhow. So…let's do this."

Then he did something he never would have imagined himself doing; Ichigo bent down and offered a hand up to the hollow side of himself.

The hollow appeared shocked and conflicted, his eyes flicking from Ichigo's hand to his face and back again. At last, he settled on something. Locking his gaze with the orange-haired teen's, the hollow pushed the proffered hand away.

"I c'n get up fine on my own, King; I'm no weakling!"

Ichigo shrugged and straightened.

"Suit yourself."

The boy turned to face Zangetsu, ignoring the hollow as he dragged himself to his feet. Watching his copy struggle would only enrage it, and the last thing any of them needed now was another fight.

"Are you ready?"

Zangetsu was clearly addressing both of them; Ichigo and his hollow nodded together.

"Go to the doors and open them. Enter the building, no matter what is inside. Quickly."

"The doors, huh? I always wondered what was in these things," the hollow mused, a cocky grin trying to hide the strain that just standing caused him. "Guess I finally get t' find out."

The hollow turned and headed across – down – the building, making for the solid wall of earth and concrete that would have been the ground under any normal circumstances. Ichigo held back for just another moment.

"Zangetsu? Your name. What was it?"

Zangetsu stared at him, silent.

"Look, if you _want_ to stay a zanpakuto, you don't have to tell me. But…if you want to forget…I mean, forever's awful long, and if you never, ever tell anyone else about this, this might be your last chance…or something…"

Ichigo trailed off and his shoulders slumped. Zangetsu made no attempt to respond to him.

"Ah, forget I said anything."

He turned away to follow his white other self.

"Ichigo."

The boy looked over his shoulder, waiting.

"I will tell you…after we defeat him."

Ichigo paused, then cracked a small grin.

"It's a promise," he said. Spinning around, he dashed across the blue side of the skyscraper to catch up with his hollow.

"A promise," Zangetsu echoed softly, frowning. He knew something of promises. He only hoped that this one could be kept.

* * *

Like almost everything else in the sideways city that was Ichigo's inner mind, the doors at the skyscraper's base were deep blue, and the glass set in them was so perfectly reflective that nothing could be seen on the inside, as his hollow himself testified.

"Nothin'," said the pure-white shadow of the shinigami, clambering to his feet on the door's surface and brushing off his hakama. "Not a thing. Wouldn' surprise me if they were empty…it is _your _mind, after all."

"Shut up," Ichigo responded, bending down to grip the handle on the other door in the set. "Let's just get this open – I don't want to know how close Aizen must be to taking my head off by now."

The hollow snickered as he took hold of the opposite handle. Awkwardly, the two of them hauled the doors upward and open, and a ripple of heat suddenly blasted out into the air, sending hollow and shinigami reeling backwards with their arms across their faces in an effort to protect their streaming eyes.

"_Whoa_, King!" Despite himself, the hollow sounded impressed. He lowered his fist to reveal an even bigger grin than was normal for him. "You've had _this_ power in here all this time, an' we didn' even _know_?"

Ichigo himself felt fairly awed. Cautiously, he edged back toward the doors, feeling the heat and the pressure in the air increase as he approached. The young man stopped at the top edge of the doorway and peered inside.

At first, he saw nothing but darkness. Then he noticed that the dark was flickering at the doorframe, leaping and dancing in tongues of flame, and the steady roaring sound which rose from the open doorway made a lot more sense.

"Black fire," the hollow said from the opposite edge of the doorway. "_Nice_. So, we gotta jump in the middle of that?"

"Not scared, are you?"

"Quit projectin' your feelings onto me, King."

"Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

"…Together on three?"

The faintly hesitant tone in the hollow's voice made Ichigo look up and meet his eyes. They were searching for something in Ichigo…not weakness, as usual, but something the hollow couldn't voice or express or possibly even define.

Ichigo knew that look. He'd given it, or something like it, to his closest friends when he explained his hollow abilities, to Tatsuki and Mizuiro and Keigo and Karin when he'd told them the truth about his double-life (or was it death?) as a shinigami. He had seen it in his father's eyes when the old (older than he had ever expected) goat finally revealed the truth of his heritage. He knew what his hollow was looking for, and he knew that it was something he could never have given him before now.

"On three, partner."

Acceptance. Equality.

The hollow's eyes widened marginally, and his grin lost some of its maniacal edge.

"Yeah…partner."

No more king, no more horse. Keeping their eyes locked together as they stood on opposite edges of the doorway, shinigami and hollow counted out together.

"One…two…three!"

And together, they jumped into the dark inferno below.

* * *

In truth, Aizen half-expected something to happen before he could slice the boy's head off. From all of the battle reports he had heard and from what he himself had witnessed, it seemed that luck favored Kurosaki Ichigo to ridiculous extents – every time he met death, it appeared to shy from him.

The instant before Kyoka Suigetsu's sharpened edge met Kurosaki's flesh, however, the thought flashed through Aizen's mind that perhaps fortune had failed the boy this once.

That was the very instant that Kurosaki's barely-there reiatsu vanished and suddenly roared to new and frightening life almost simultaneously, the force of it striking Aizen like a god's hammer and throwing him backwards through one of the last remaining fragments of wall left in the room.

Drawing himself upright and brushing fragments of white stone from his frayed and charred overcoat, Aizen casually regarded the whirling ball of pure black fire before him and shook his head.

"Ever the wild card, Kurosaki."

The black flames were dying down, calming just enough for the traitorous shinigami to make out two tall figures standing in their center. One was unfamiliar to him – the form of a wild-haired man in a ragged black coat. Aizen knew that this had to be Zangetsu materialized even before he saw the cleaver held firmly in the man's hand.

The other was Kurosaki, though transformed. The unsightly orange hair remained exactly the same as it had been before, and the boy's overall form and the shape of his face also seemed unchanged, but his dress and the feel of his reiatsu were noticeably different. The black hakama remained, though without any hint of the white sash that once belted it – instead, it was bound by a long, slender black chain which fell along his right side, ending in a red-dyed tuft of animal hair. Kurosaki's chest and right arm seemed to be bandaged with strips of black cloth, while a longer, equally black panel of cloth edged in red was draped across his left. This piece of garment was shaped vaguely like half of the top portion of a shihakushou, though it was long enough to fall to a tattered end halfway between where it was tied in by the chain at his waist and the floor. The left side of the boy's face bore two curved red stripes drawn from the inner edge of his nose out to his ear, while the right was marked by a wide vertical line that ran from his hairline to his chin. Bound by a red chain to the outside of his left shoulder was the white, horned skull mask which was the form of Kurosaki's _resurreccion_.

The boy opened his eyes, and though the scleras were white, the irises burned golden.

His reiatsu was vaguely familiar and nearly as dark as it had been while in _resurreccion_, but it felt as though something had warped it, as though a veil had been dropped over it…

Or as though a veil had finally been thrown aside.

"Zanpakuto," Aizen said, a curious light gleaming in his eyes. "Amazing. I had wondered if you knew of this transformation or not, and I had wondered, if you did, whether you would be willing to undergo it. These days, it's not often that a shinigami would willingly sell his soul to an eternity of servitude for a mere boost of power. You certainly are desperate."

The only response that Kurosaki – though that was no longer his true name, Aizen mused – gave was to hold his right arm out to the side as though preparing to grasp something. The black fire burst out of thin air under his palm as he murmured words too quiet for the shinigami to hear. The flames lengthened rapidly, solidifying in the form of a dark daito.

The already-high spiritual pressure of the newly born zanpakuto spirit rose.

Aizen felt that this was becoming serious, and for a brief moment he played with the thought of releasing his bankai and ending the fight before it could properly resume. After all, this had gone on quite long enough.

When Zangetsu and the other spirit both pointed their blades at him and their reiatsu ignited around them – Zangetsu's deep blue, once-Kurosaki's pure black – Aizen stopped toying with the idea of bankai and immediately reached for the bond between himself and Kyoka Suigetsu to make it reality.

In a single instant, three voices called out their full releases, and three different reiatsu crashed together in that one antechamber before the throne room.

* * *

Rukia was worried, and it was going to get her killed.

She drove her sword through another hideous beast with too many legs and only one eye, but her movements were distracted. The shinigami was moving through battle almost purely on instinct, and the wounds she had attained in the last hour were testament to that.

She was trying to keep track of Ichigo.

Rukia normally trusted in his abilities, yes, but not too long after he had vanished ahead after Aizen, strange things had started to happen to his reiatsu.

She had felt the dark, suffocating power of his _resurreccion_ earlier – it had actually affected most of the combatants in the halls of the King's palace – but the only aspect of that which she found worrisome was how soon he had been driven to use that power. It meant that Aizen was still very strong in comparison, and that Ichigo would have a hard fight ahead of him.

Then, not half an hour later, Rukia suddenly realized that the dark shell over Ichigo's reiatsu had broken, and that the spiritual pressure itself was beginning to waver dangerously.

Black claws had torn deep furrows in her left arm then, and she had been forced to turn her attention away from her friend to deal with a far more immediate threat, a threat which kept her busy for such a long, long time that it nearly drove her to distraction.

The moment Rukia found breathing room, however, she searched out Ichigo's reiatsu again.

And she couldn't find it.

The small shinigami froze, eyes wide as she frantically began to search with every sense she possibly could, so focused on finding just one reiatsu among hundreds that she didn't see the snake-like demon rearing up behind her, jaws gaping wide, swaying back –

"RUKIA!"

She jumped, spinning around just in time to see a familiar bankai smash into the demon, driving it through the ceiling and tearing it apart with bony jaws.

"Renji!"

The red-haired shinigami yanked hard on the handle of his bankai, drawing the white snake's head around to surround them in a protective circle of spiky bone. Once assured of their relative safety, Renji turned on Rukia furiously.

"What are you doing? Spacing out like that in the middle of –!"

"Renji, Ichigo, can you sense Ichigo?"

"Eh? 'Course not; I can't sense anything in this mess. Why?"

"I lost him just now, and his reiatsu's been fluctuating recently. I was about to search again in case…in case I just missed him earlier."

"…Well hurry up, then," Renji said gruffly, scowling and crossing his arms. "Don't have time to waste here. Besides, I need to take out more enemies – can't have Ikkaku beat me."

A quick smile crossed Rukia's face, both at Renji's understanding (even if he hid it) and at his turning the battle into a competition. She closed her eyes and quickly reached out with her senses, sorting through reiatsu as quickly as she possibly could.

_Shinigami – too light. Shinigami – too old. Demon. Demon. Shinigami – too weak. Demon, demon, demon, demon, shini – nope Ikkaku, demon, shinigami too pure shinigami not right shinigami too…healing…demondemon shinigaminoYumichika shinigamino demon bankaishinigamibrother demondemondemon notshinigami notshini---WAIT! _

Rukia grasped the familiar reiatsu in her mind, her brow furrowing in confusion. It was like Ichigo, _very_ like Ichigo, but it seemed…warped. It wasn't a shinigami's reiatsu, nor was it a hollow's, but something else entirely. It was as though someone had taken a picture she was familiar with and suddenly changed it, reforming it to show the same subject from a different angle so that the wrongness of it struck her before the familiarity could.

She felt Sode no Shirayuki stir in her mind, looking with some interest beyond her usual icy apathy.

"_Ah, so he is one of us now."_

What did she mean, _one of us_?

"_Zanpakuto."_

What?

"_Any shinigami may become zanpakuto. It is a final transformation, and it is forever. Kurosaki Ichigo the human, the shinigami, the vizard, is dead."_

No.

Rukia clutched the sense of Ichigo's strange reiatsu close in her mind, feeling the familiarity of it, the _Ichigo_ of it. It was different, but it was still him. Her heart knew this.

"_You will only hurt yourself, persisting in this belief._"

Her heart _knew_ this!

"_Suit yourself…_"

"Rukia?"

The shinigami began to open her eyes, to open her mouth to respond to Renji – though she wasn't sure what she would say just yet – when the reiatsu in her grip shuddered, spiked, and plummeted.

Rukia's eyes snapped open wide.

"Ichigo!"

Tightening her grip on Sode no Shirayuki, Rukia rushed in the direction of Ichigo's fading reiatsu. Renji barely managed to get his Zabimaru out of her way; she would surely have cut straight through the bone if necessary.

The redhead knew his childhood friend, and while he felt vaguely sorry for any demons which might step in her path at the moment, he also knew that she would need someone to watch her back while she focused entirely on what was ahead of her. With a faintly disappointed sigh, Renji left the thick of battle and his competition with Ikkaku to make sure Rukia was safe.

And besides, Ichigo was his friend, too.

* * *

The antechamber had no ceiling anymore. Whatever used to be up there, cutting off the room from the sky, had been pulverized into mere pebbles which lay scattered across the floor. Now the otherworldly light of the King's Realm – light that was neither moon nor sun but something that fluctuated between the two without the effect of a heavenly body – spilled freely down across ruptured stone and rusty-red bloodstains and the torn forms of the combatants that had caused the destruction.

Ichigo was laying face-up across the layers of crushed rock, so he could see the blue-violet sky outside and the light that it emitted. He thought it was a bit more like moonlight now.

Pretty.

His breath rasped in his throat. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Zan-getsu?"

"I am here."

He turned his head, and sure enough, there was the familiar form of his former sword. The zanpakuto's sunglasses were cracked across one eye, and blood was dripping across the other, but Ichigo still found Zangetsu's gaze and held it.

His midsection hurt, and his lungs and heart were on fire. He needed to ignore it, just for a moment…a moment longer.

"You…promised."

The other zanpakuto was silent for a long moment before he bent his head in acknowledgement.

"I promised."

Aizen's body lay crumpled not far away, Kyoka Suigetsu scattered in pieces around it. The traitor was dead, and this time, it was no illusion.

Huh. The pain was fading – instead, he seemed to be experiencing the strangest numbness that buzzed about the edges of his mind and his eyes. Weird.

"Well?"

Zangetsu stretched out his bloody right hand, dragging himself forward. His left was a stump, so it couldn't help. Ichigo could do nothing but watch, and wait until the zanpakuto spirit was close enough to whisper a name in his ear.

It was a strange name. Foreign. Instead of family-personal, Ichigo got the distinct impression that it was personal-family. He also got the impression that he should say it just the way Zangetsu did, if possible.

The numb was spreading. Perhaps he was turning into a sword? That would explain why his hands and feet, his arms and legs, seemed to be missing from his senses.

"You ready?"

Zangetsu simply slumped to the side, letting his head rest on the ground. His eyes never left Ichigo's.

"'Kay. I guess I'll…see you again later…Timur Kaminski."

Ichigo's tongue tripped over the syllables. Zangetsu didn't seem to mind. In fact, the zanpakuto spirit simply closed his eyes and a ghostly smile pricked at the corners of his perpetually-stoic mouth…the first smile Ichigo had ever seen there. His entire form began to glow faintly with a deep blue light, and with a sound like a sigh, he went limp and slowly vanished.

Ichigo found the strength to turn his head back to the sky and like-the-moon light above him, watching the blue sparks drift and fade away.

"Hope you find…whatever you look for…old man," he murmured. Darkness was creeping up the edges of his eyes, and the numb feeling was encroaching upon his tongue and ears. "Peace…or fighting…or power…or fa-family…or…"

He fell silent, his voice failing him at last.

The moonlight was so…so calming. Like home.

Bit funny he should think that. With his new form, new name, he'd've expected to feel closer to the sun…

Didn't matter much. The numbness had just about covered him – he could've been nothing more than a pair of fading eyes floating above the ground for all he could sense – and he thought he might have a name for that numbing sensation at last.

Death.

Perhaps.

He knew it'd come eventually, but somehow…somehow he'd always escaped it, or come back from it, or…

They'd miss him.

Faces flashed through his mind too fast to see or name, but that was fine – he knew the essence of them. They didn't need words or images to be recognized. Not for him.

They'd miss him. Terribly.

_Yuzu_. She'd probably cry_. Karin_. Would be angry. _Dad_. Would…oh, hell, if he put up a stupid poster, he'd _kill him_.

_The shinigami_. Didn't know him that well, he thought, but hey, some of them might miss him. Just a little bit. Renji might. Maybe even Ikkaku and Yumichika, though not for long.

Prob'ly not Byakuya, though. Not at all.

He'd better keep treating Rukia like a proper little sister. No more of that…pride…honor…

So tired.

_Rukia_.

The world was getting darker, but he could swear that the moonlight shining in his eyes was brightening. He thought he could hear something, but it was indistinct. He was going to miss them.

A dim face came over his vision, pale with black hair around and across it and violet eyes. It was scared. It was yelling something – the sounds crashed against his ears like ocean waves. It was crying.

_Don't._

_Sorry._

_Rukia._

Then the darkness covered the face, and the newly-formed blade shattered and burned into nothingness.

* * *

The King's Realm didn't exist in quite the same way that Soul Society, or Earth, or Hueco Mundo could be said to exist. Those three realms were bound together by time and space, so that even though they existed in separate dimensions, they ran through the cycles of life and death and rebirth in synch with each other. The Sereitei could only be reached from Japan, and the castle of Las Noches which Aizen ruled was in roughly the same segment of Hueco Mundo as the area inhabited by Karakura on Earth. A month in one realm was equal to a month in the others.

Not so in the King's Realm.

It was everywhere and everywhen at once. The King's throne room could be more-or-less connected to a small region of Mongolia in 300 B.C.E while a nearby hallway might simultaneously pass through France in 1980. Living souls in the Realm were, themselves, connected to their own time and place simply by virtue of birth.

The souls of the newly dead, however, were a different story. After all, one cannot reincarnate inside the King's Realm, and once one's original birth has been wiped clean by death, there is nothing left to tether that one to a particular time or space.

The eventual destinations of Aizen Sousuke and Timur Kaminski – or, rather, the energy of their souls – remain unknown. Reincarnation would have wiped their memories clean and given them new faces, new names.

The zanpakuto that was once Kurosaki Ichigo, however, is quite a different story. Possessing all of the memories of his former life and bound to a wielder quite as unusual as he ever was, fate simply couldn't let him vanish into the stream of life and rebirth without a clear trace.

For you see, on Halloween night in the year 1981, in a little town in England, there occurred something entirely unprecedented. A dangerous murderer, a wizard, by the name of Lord Voldemort turned his weapon upon a small family. When he came to his target, a baby boy, the mother sacrificed herself willingly, hoping to save her child's life. The power of that sacrifice could not stop the wizard's curse from burning away the baby's chain of fate in an instant, but it held the child's soul inside its body, prevented it from becoming a hollow, and threw what was left of the dark magic back at its caster.

Its job done, the protective magic subsided, and as it did, two fragments of spirit found their way to the boy's trapped soul and bound themselves to it.

One was a blight, a tattered shred that fell from the murderer's spirit as it fled the house and the magic that had nearly destroyed it.

The other was just as shadowed, but far less malevolent: the soul of a sword, far from home and pulled through time to the spirit that matched it most closely, that had the greatest need for it.

In a few hours, the little boy would be found. Soon after, he would go to his relatives, grow up at least a little, and discover his magical heritage. He would go to school and face danger and survive.

But he would also find a strength he never would have guessed he had, and he would find it in a friend that was both part of his soul and a distinct other's.

And that strength would be to protect.

* * *

**To be continued.**

**-**

AN: Turning Ichigo into a Zanpakuto was inspired by a story called Kuroi no Taiyo written by Black Sun Upon An Icy Sky. If you like this concept, I do recommend searching this story out. If you hate the search engine, you could always go to the Bleach archives and find it by setting characters to Muramasa and Ichigo.

This story is simply my attempt to play a bit with the Ichigo-zanpakuto concept while simultaneously creating a Bleach/HP crossover which might actually make some sense and combine the two worlds in a reasonable manner.

As a heads up: from here on out, things will focus far more on Harry's story, though you'll definitely get scenes from Ichigo's point of view. I will not be rewriting the HP series, however. Instead, expect something more like individual scenes linked together in a long chain of events.

Also, for those who are concerned about pairings: on the Bleach side, I favor Ichiruki. Heavy hints were made toward that in this chapter. However, due to certain circumstances, this is unlikely to come to any sort of conclusion in this story. On the HP side, I follow established canon: Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione. In either case, Romance is not my main focus. At most the characters or narration may make reference to it. No kissy scenes, I promise you that.

If you have any questions or concerns about this story, go ahead and mention them in a review or a PM. I will more than likely answer.

Thank you for reading, and in advance for any responses you might give me.


	2. Chapter 2

_The pain, the pain, the pain the pain thepainthepainthePAINTHEPA—_

Voldemort viciously wrenched himself from most of his host's senses and nerves, and the agony vanished as abruptly as it had begun…for him, at least. Quirrell, on the other hand, was still screaming; the small room echoed with the sound. It was becoming rather annoying, actually, but Voldemort didn't feel like cutting himself off from the man's sense of hearing just yet.

"Master!" the annoyance screeched. How pathetic. "I cannot hold him – my hands – my hands!"

Could he not _think_ under pressure? Voldemort roused enough strength to give himself a voice.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done with it!"

He needed that stone, and if Potter died by a hand not his own, so be it. He was only an infant, after all, when the curse had rebounded on Voldemort; there was little reason to kill the boy himself other than a small, petty grudge easily ignored.

Quirrell's hand rose, the man almost mindlessly obeying his master, and Voldemort looked on through his eyes, gleefully awaiting the shock of death to enter the young face of the boy pinned beneath them.

What happened instead rather shocked Voldemort.

The boy – the reckless, foolish, precocious boy – lunged upwards, grasping desperately at Quirrell's face. Black spots flashed across the useless man's vision; Voldemort partially withdrew in disgust. He was screaming again. The Dark Lord felt his patience, tenuous under the best of circumstances, snap.

"KILL HIM!" he raged as Quirrell reeled back, arms windmilling frantically. "KILL HIM! _KILL HIM_!"

Sobbing, Quirrell raised his arm yet again. Potter leapt forward and latched onto it, clinging desperately as the much larger man screamed and flailed about in an attempt to shake him off. Voldemort, though he was no longer quite as aware of Quirrell's nervous system, suddenly realized that the man's entire body was beginning to shut down from the pain of the severe burns. He also suddenly realized that a frighteningly familiar presence was drawing close…_too close_.

He couldn't fight Dumbledore in this state.

He needed that stone _now_. A way to get past the old wizard safely would also be helpful.

Voldemort cast his senses quickly about the room, and quickly he found the perfect solution. If he had the time or energy, he might have laughed.

The boy.

There was a smudge of darkness inside the boy's mind and soul – a smudge quite safe from this burning power of his. It would be a perfect sanctuary; the child's mind was open and unguarded, and since he was so young it would be easily malleable, should Voldemort choose to keep him around even after attaining the stone from him.

Without a second thought, Voldemort's tattered spirit tore itself from Quirrell's dying body and rushed through the air. It struck Harry's scar and it was gone.

Quirrell fell to the ground and didn't move again. Dumbledore burst into the room, shouting out Harry's name. Harry himself was hardly aware of any of this, for at that moment, he himself experienced a blinding pain about his scar and he fell into darkness.

* * *

Ten and a half years.

It had been ten and a half years, give or take a month or two. He knew this, though he couldn't say exactly how or why. He couldn't even see where he was. There were no sounds, no tastes, no smells. Nothing but a steadily flowing knowledge of someone else's life.

He had been drifting in pitch darkness for ten and a half years.

Was he asleep? Was he awake? Was there a difference?

Strangely enough, he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't bring himself to care about a lot of things. It was as though knowledge had become disconnected from feelings, as though he couldn't bring the two together.

Plus, most of what he felt these days didn't belong to him, and he knew it.

The someone else – a boy – was brave. He was determined. He was scared.

He was absolutely petrified.

The darkness stirred a little, and for the first time he experienced something like touch; a current against his skin, like wind or water or licking flame.

Was he waking at last?

He was. He had to be.

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, his sense of touch returned. He could feel his limbs, his fingers and toes, his hair brushing his forehead. Folds of cloth enveloped his legs and left arm; strips of it bound his chest and right arm. The current he felt was, indeed, a stiff wind, and something solid and rough and vaguely curved was under his back.

Then he heard. The chain around his waist was clinking as the wind swayed it; it was dangling over the edge of whatever he lay on. Something rustled all around him – above, below, to the sides – and the wind itself was a steady roar.

With his senses, the knowledge became sharper, clearer, and more defined. It connected to his emotions at last, and he felt his brow furrow in a familiar motion.

His shinigami – human, wizard – was fighting his parents' murderer – definitely not human, _Voldemort_? – and though the host of that spirit was falling at last, the spirit itself was tearing out of that body and rushing towards…towards…

His eyes snapped open, burning golden, and he sat up on what he now knew was a thick tree limb. He looked upward quickly, his gaze locking onto a portion of sky through the dancing leaves around him.

A black line in three angled segments, shaped vaguely like a lightning bolt, tore the sky apart. A human form dressed in black fell from it, followed quickly by something slightly translucent, tattered like an old cloak, and smelling of something that was _Hollow_, but not.

The zanpakuto tensed and launched himself from the tree limb, crossing the distance in a flash of something between shunpo and sonido, something all his own. He caught the falling boy in midair and lowered him carefully to the tall, dry grass that covered the otherwise empty plain. The young wizard was unconscious, even here in his own inner world. The zanpakuto looked at his shinigami curiously, appraising him. Smaller and scrawnier than he had expected…oh, he _knew_ what the boy looked like, but simply _knowing_ wasn't the same as _seeing_ for himself. His black hair was messy, his skin pale, his eyes – as the zanpakuto knew but couldn't see just yet – would be bright green, and those glasses were bound to get on his nerves, especially if the kid ever managed to pick up the habit of pushing them up his nose like that blasted Quincy…

Suddenly, the hollow-that-was-not made a slightly uncharacteristic noise of confusion, drawing the zanpakuto's gaze away from the unconscious boy at last.

"What…what are _you_?"

The zanpakuto turned his full attention to the spirit, regarding the snake-like face and torn-up form with a scowl.

"Not your business," he replied tersely, his voice echoing just slightly around the edges, "and you don't belong here, so hurry up and get out before I make you."

The spirit tensed stubbornly, arrogantly, but before it could open its flat-lipped, gash-in-the-face mouth with some cheesy comeback or superior one-liner, the zanpakuto flared his reiatsu and leapt forward, wreathed in black flames and grinning like a demon.

Voldemort barely managed to dodge that first punch; the heat of it alone incinerated the edge of his spiritual form, driving a wedge of pain and fear straight through him.

The zanpakuto laughed shortly and whirled into an impossibly fast kick. Voldemort flew back again and, realizing he had almost no other choice and very little opportunity left, spun about and fled from Harry's inner world, vanishing through the crack in the sky and barely escaping Dumbledore on the outside.

The zanpakuto, however, didn't particularly care about that. The moment the intruder had vanished, he let his reiatsu fall away. Turning around, he looked again at the unconscious wizard lying in the dry, rustling grass.

A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, even though his eyebrows remained furrowed in their usual glare.

Ten and a half years, and he was finally awake.

"Hey, there…Harry."

* * *

"—_rry, Harry, OI!"_

The twelve-year old boy grit his teeth and tried his best to ignore the echoing voice. He instead focused all of his concentration on the pounding of his shoes on the stone floor, on the heavy sword in his right hand, and on the soft rustles and loud hissing of the recently-blinded, fifty-foot snake slithering after him.

He glanced over his shoulder, then quickly dove to one side. The basilisk's jaws crashed shut where he had been running a moment before. Harry scrambled to his feet and heaved Gryffindor's blade upward, slamming it across the snake's neck.

"_Ha—listen to—Harr—ld you just—"_

The scales parted and red blood burst out, but the wound seemed to do little more than enrage the giant serpent. With a hiss that Harry's mind registered as a mere animal scream, the basilisk's long coils jerked and flailed, forcing the young wizard to focus completely on dodging and keeping his grip on the sword he was borrowing.

"—_on't ignore m--!_"

Harry couldn't stop a shudder of fear from passing over him. That voice, whatever it was, definitely wasn't helping his concentration.

It had started…he wasn't sure when, exactly. Last summer? Perhaps even earlier? Sometime after he met Voldemort face-to-face for the first time, anyhow. At first it had just been the odd feeling of hearing someone call his name, then turning around to find no one there. Everyone experienced that occasionally; it had been nothing to worry about. Then the feeling grew over the summer, until Harry began to wonder if being locked up in his room was affecting his sanity somehow (by that time, the calls had been accompanied by flashes of anger and a strange urge to punch something, usually one of his relatives).

By the time term started again, it wasn't so much a vague feeling that someone across the hall had spoken his name, but a definite voice, low, distorted, quiet, with an unsettling echo that had nothing to do with space or distance. Sometimes it spoke his name, sometimes it shouted, but the volume itself never varied, nor did the words. _Harry…Harry…Harry…Harry…_It made him nervous. Why could he hear it, but no one else? How did it know his name?

He couldn't tell Ron or Hermione. He couldn't tell anyone; his assumption that hearing voices was not a good thing even in the wizarding world was pretty well confirmed with the revelation that he could speak to snakes. At one point, Harry wondered if whatever was doing the petrifying around the school was speaking to him, and therefore wondered if he might not be the Heir of Slytherin after all, attacking students without knowing it.

The moment he thought that, the voice had said its first (technically) complete sentence: _Don't be stupid._

Of course, the knowledge that whatever it was could apparently read his thoughts only made Harry worry more.

By this point, the boy was so concerned with what might or might not have been happening that he was fully prepared to speak to Dumbledore about it, even if it got him locked up in a wizarding mental hospital for the rest of his life. The day he decided this, however, was the day that the Headmaster was suspended from his post, leaving Harry with the echoing voice speaking in faint, half-heard sentences and no one older and wiser to rely on.

Then things started to roll downhill, and an echoing voice that faded in and out of his hearing like a badly tuned radio, complete with static bursts, didn't seem so bad anymore. The petrifications got more frequent, they lost Hermione, they discovered the identity of the monster, they lost Ginny, Lockhart had proven himself an incompetent coward after all, and the next thing Harry really knew, he was facing off against a younger Voldemort and a giant snake whose gaze alone could kill.

Needless to say, by this point the mysterious voice wasn't much more than an annoyance.

"_Harry, just—isten! You—listen to—aaaagh! Do you—EARS?"_

The snake thrashed about, and Riddle was shouting something in Parseltongue about smelling him, but Harry was a bit too occupied inside his own mind to catch what was being said.

_Go away, go away, go away! Get out of my head!_

"_Idiot, I—away! If you just—me, then…LOOK OUT!_"

Harry looked up instinctively at the shout, though it had sounded only through his own head, and jumped to the side as the snake lunged. It hit the wall behind him. Harry began to shuffle along said wall, trying to avoid the still-writhing coils of the basilisk.

The vibrant green snake reared back and shot forward again, this time striking the wall to Harry's other side. With a frantic cry, the boy jumped in the other direction. The basilisk recovered faster this time, weaving its head quickly through the air before stopping with its nose pointed directly at Harry. The young wizard raised the heavy sword again.

"_My name! Call—it's _zzzrrrrgzzzzzznnnn! _Why can't—hear me? HARRY!_"

The snake struck, and this time, it was dead on. Propelled forward by its own power, and then by its own weight, the basilisk impaled itself on Gryffindor's sword.

Harry felt an aching pain suddenly appear in his arm, just about the elbow. The burning sensation spread up his arm as the sword slid from his grasp and the basilisk toppled over, the fang that had struck Harry splintering at the base until it was more attached to the boy than to the snake it had come from.

Harry thought he heard the voice curse – it had to be the voice, since he never used words like _that_, even in his own mind – but he also wasn't very sure whether he _could_ have heard anything at all. The world was reeling and going all muddle-colored, and sounds had become oddly muffled. He thought he saw the Chamber suddenly move around him, tipping back and up until he suddenly found himself lying limply against the ancient stone wall.

"You seem to have killed my basilisk…no matter, really," Riddle was saying as he wandered across the Chamber, twirling Harry's wand in his pale fingers, "since you're dying anyhow."

There was a soft rustle and a flash of gold and red, and Harry realized that Dumbledore's phoenix had landed beside him. His vision wavered; he almost thought he saw worry in the bird's eyes.

"Fawkes," he said, trying to smile a little as he remembered the phoenix attacking the basilisk's eyes and blinding it, "you were brilliant…"

Fawkes looked at Harry carefully, sensing him on a level beyond mere sight and smell, and for a moment he wondered what to do.

As a phoenix, Fawkes was far more intelligent than most would realize, and he had a very long memory to boot. He had sensed something like this before, a strange power hidden in a soul which could be released from a body. In addition, this power felt oddly like himself, though darker in appearance and a bit in temperament. It needed to come out. Harry needed to come out.

But for that to happen, he needed to let the boy die.

His instinct demanded he heal. His intellect demanded he do nothing.

Tears gathered at the corners of the phoenix's dark eyes. He shuffled his claws and looked away from the bloody wound in Harry's arm and the dark poison he could practically _see_ flying through the boy's body.

Then, finally, just as the phoenix thought he would break, just as he began to bend his head to cry in earnest over the hole the fang had made, Harry's green eyes dimmed and slowly closed and his body slumped further down the wall, sliding to the floor…

Leaving a copy of himself behind.

* * *

When Harry first felt himself slipping into darkness, he wasn't quite sure what he expected to happen. Did wizards get an afterlife? What was it like? Would he just become another ghost and get stuck haunting the Chamber of Secrets forever?

He really hoped not.

The dark swallowed him whole, and he let his eyes close. Might as well…nothing else to see, after all…

WHUMPH!

"GAAH!"

In a matter of moments, Harry's eyes flew open again and he was gasping for air, having landed flat on his back on something very solid and very hard. From the feel of dirt under his spread-eagle arms and the sight of tall grass above him, that something was the ground, and he was somewhere outdoors.

Upon finally regaining his breath, Harry sat up and took a good look around.

The grass, yellow and dry, stretched as far as he could see in every direction, entirely uninterrupted. The only truly unique feature on the ground was a single tree, an oak perhaps, which rose tall and was thickly crowned with green leaves. There was a sun above him, not directly as though it was midday, but a little lower in the sky, like afternoon or morning. Not a single cloud was in sight.

Aside from a slight wind that swept across the grass and rustled the leaves on the tree, nothing stirred. It was oddly peaceful. On this basis, Harry made a fairly reasonable assumption.

"Heaven?"

"Che. Hardly."

Had he not already been seated, Harry might have toppled to the ground in surprised fright. As he stared at the tree, from which the vaguely-echoing voice had issued, he rediscovered the ability to speak…

"Who – how – what – uh - ?"

…sort of.

A short laugh answered him, and suddenly a figure dressed in something that was mostly black and totally foreign dropped to the ground from the shaded limbs. It strode forward, and Harry quickly realized that it was an older teenage boy with shockingly red hair, a horned skull mask strapped to his left shoulder, and an angry scowl twisted into his feral, red-striped face.

It made for a very frightening picture.

The other teen stopped abruptly in front of him, and Harry quickly scrambled to his feet to face him properly – as much as he could, at any rate, seeing as the orange-haired stranger stood at least two feet taller than he did.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Harry began to feel uncomfortable. Then he noticed the stranger's intensely yellow eyes, and he began to feel a bit beyond uncomfortable. Then the stranger shot forward, fisting a hand in the front of Harry's robes and yanking him up so that their faces were only inches apart, and the young wizard nearly jumped out of his socks.

"Do you have any idea how _aggravating _it is to _yell yourself hoarse_ for _one whole year_ and just get _ignored_?!"

Harry gaped.

"That was--?"

"Damn right, it was me! I swear I was never this thick with Zangetsu – a little bit, yes, but nowhere near this level. One year, Harry, _one year_, and you _still_ can't hear my name?!"

Harry honestly wasn't sure what to say to this.

"Er…sorry?"

The violent youth stared at him as though vaguely surprised. The hand holding Harry's robes loosened, and the boy slid down from the tips of his toes to stand firmly on his own two feet again. He took a shaky breath and rubbed at the back of his neck cautiously, trying to ease the discomfort in the spot where his collar had dug into his skin.

"Sorry?" the stranger repeated, almost disbelieving. "One year of cold shoulders, silence, and orders to 'go away,' and all you have to say…is _sorry_?"

"Er, well, in my defense, I really have no idea what's going on or what you're talking about. And what _is_ your name?"

"My name is the whole point of this issue we're having – and it's _dzzzzzrrrgzzzznnn_."

Harry gave the stranger a blank look, and the teen sighed and slapped a hand across his forehead, muttering something that sounded like '_how damn long is this gonna take_.'

"Well," Harry said casually, "maybe you could just tell me why you're name's so important, and why I can't hear it, and what you're doing in my head…or what you _were_ doing, anyhow. And I'm pretty sure I've got plenty of time now, seeing as I'm…"

"Oh, no you aren't," the teenager replied grimly. "Not really, at any rate. Seriously, it figures I'd get stuck with the one shinigami who's as abnormal as I ever was…maybe even more so."

Harry didn't know what to ask about first. He settled for an eloquent "huh?"

"Okay…God, I hate explaining things…okay, long story short: you're dead, but you're not. Sort of. It gets more complicated than that, but I never really understood it myself and we don't have time to hammer out the details. You'll get used to the idea eventually. The point of _that_ is that you've now got a spirit form as well as a living body. You go about life in the body, and sometimes you get to ditch the body to fight hollows in your spirit form. That's not too important now, so I'll explain it later as well. You following so far?"

He nodded numbly. The stranger went on.

"Right, so I think…I _think_ that what happened out there is the basilisk's poison was supposed to kill you, but because you've got this spirit form – since you're a _shinigami_ – instead of knocking a normal soul out of a dead body it just knocked your living spirit out. By the way, if you want to use that body again we'd better find a way to get the poison out quick. I don't know much healing _kido_, but maybe we can make that work…"

Harry waited a moment to allow the stranger to go on, but when he remained silent, the young wizard coughed and fought down an urge to raise his hand.

"So…I'm a…sheena-what-me? What's that?"

"Hmm? Oh. _Shinigami_. I'm pretty sure it translates to 'death god.'"

Harry was rather shocked.

"Which brings us to me. Death gods protect souls, and to do that they sometimes have to fight off bad souls, called hollows. It's a little hard to fight hollows without a weapon, so death gods carry swords. And these swords are a little…well, special."

As surprised as Harry still was, as much information as he had absorbed in such a short amount of time, and as young as he was, the wizard wasn't a complete idiot. He thought he had an inkling of where this was going.

"Special, as in they have names? And…maybe voices?"

The stranger looked rather more pleased than angry now. Somehow, he managed to do it while maintaining the furrow between his eyebrows.

"You got it. I'm something called a soul-cutter. I'm sort of…meshed with your soul, enough that you could technically say that I'm part of you. If you learn my name, you can fight with my strength. If you don't, you're pretty much stuck with a normal chunk of metal that can be sliced apart like it's made of butter if it crosses with a named soulcutter. _That's_ the difference in strength that I'm trying to get you to jump. _That's_ why you've got to clean your ears out and _listen_ for once. Understand?"

"Well, yes, I suppose…"

"Good. 'Cause we're pretty much out of time here. I think your soul is just about to come out of your body…yep, there it goes."

The world shook slightly, and Harry felt a curious sensation in the core of his chest, as though something was trying to draw him upwards from that point. Suddenly a (comparatively) large hand encircled his upper arm. The boy looked up and back to see the bottom of the stranger's chin and his throat; the older teen was looking up at the sky.

"I'll help you get back up there this time," the stranger said. "and I'll be guiding you and talking to you once you're out there. But the next time I tell you my name," and he lowered his head to lock eyes with Harry, the glare back in place, "you'd better hear me."

Before Harry could do much more than nod, the soulcutter had tucked him under one arm and was leaping up from the ground, practically flying through the sky with Harry clutching at his glasses and trying very hard not to scream.

The next thing the boy was aware of was darkness, followed suddenly by a sort of dim light as he opened his eyes, blinked, and recognized the Chamber of Secrets again, all full of dead snake and dying Ginny and very, very shocked Riddle.

"How…how is this _possible_?"

Harry shrugged and looked down at himself, just a little more interested in the weight at his side and the different feel of his attire than in explaining much of anything to Riddle.

He didn't take the time to thoroughly examine his clothing, not deeming it too important, but at first glance he seemed to be wearing a light grey shirt with dark grey trousers, some sort of black sneaker, and a long-sleeved, heel-length black coat over it all. A belt held the coat in at his waist, and hanging from the left side of the belt was a sheathed sword of simple steel. Harry reached across and drew it, surprised to find that rather than feeling vaguely heavy and uncomfortable as Gryffindor's sword had, it fit nicely in his grip and had a sort of reassuring weight to it.

"_My sealed form_," the stranger's voice murmured in his head, now free of static bursts and pockets of silence. "_it'll change when you call my name. Get stronger. For now, though, focus on the enemy. He's still a spirit, and like a hollow in a way; if we can take him down, chances are he'll be purified and that girl'll get her soul energy back_."

Harry nodded, looking up at Riddle again. The younger Voldemort had regained his composure and now regarded Harry with a sort of cool calculating.

"Well, that's no matter either. I suppose I like it better this way myself. My basilisk killed the first you, and now I get to have a bit of fun as well. Just you and me, now, Potter…"

"_Get ready, Harry. Make sure you listen, and follow your instincts. I'm about to tell you again."_

Harry lifted his sword and nodded again. Something he didn't recognize stirred within him, something strong and powerful. His heart started beating faster, and he fought not to smile. Whatever it was, it felt…rather good.

Fawkes trilled behind him, raising his emotions higher. Harry looked back over his shoulder briefly to see the beautiful bird crouching beside his body, tears sliding down its cheeks and dripping onto the bloody wound. Their eyes met, and then the firebird took off, vanishing into the shadows of the Chamber's high ceiling.

"_Let your spirit force rise…like that, yeah. Now, release it._"

Acting on instinct, Harry did.

Brilliant ruby light burst into the air around him, encircling him completely and bearing down on the floor so hard that the stone began to crack. Riddle's eyes widened in shock, and he brought his arm forward, hurling a curse toward Harry. Somehow, though, it seemed to be travelling rather slowly; the boy wizard simply stepped to the side and watched it pass.

"_Now, Harry! Rise from death's shadow. My name is—_"

Harry grinned and thrust his blade to one side, holding it at an angle toward the ground.

"Dark Sun!"

The red light around him flared, exploding through the chamber and throwing everything into sharp relief. A burst of flame crackled across the sword in Harry's fist, utterly changing it. Now, instead of a silvery steel western-style blade, he held a single-edged katana made of a strange black metal that glinted with an almost golden sheen in the light. The crossguard was of an odd shape – a single long block of black metal which connected hilt and blade and from which branched three shorter blocks at even distances apart, the longest of which was perpendicular to the cutting edge of the katana and the shortest of which extended on either side of the point where blade and hilt met. The far end of the hilt was capped in the same black-gold metal, from which sprouted some sort of red-dyed tuft of hair or fur and a short, slender chain that ended in a slightly larger, circular hoop of metal.

Harry swung the sword upwards experimentally. It cut through the air smoothly, and though it was a bit longer and was shaped differently from the first sword it still felt comfortable.

"Flashy parlor tricks," Riddle suddenly announced, drawing Harry's attention back to himself again, "won't save you, Potter. If there was any real power in that show, hurry up and use it. I'm getting bored, and I just might have to kill you and be done with it if this takes much longer."

"Get ready, Riddle," Harry responded, dropping into what he hoped might have been a fighting stance. "We're coming."

He felt a small surge of surprise and pride from Darksun in his mind, but he had little time to fathom the reason, for at that moment, several different things happened.

Riddle swung his wand about, calling out a curse. Harry let his spirit force rise again until it manifested as a red glow about his entire body. Fawkes appeared just before Harry in a burst of flame and a trill of music that made Riddle cut off his incantation and flinch and Harry's red glow spike in sudden joy.

A black book fell from the phoenix's claws to land, spread open, on the stone floor.

For a moment, both Harry and Riddle stared at it.

Then, purely on instinct and almost faster than the thought which prompted the action, Harry switched his grip on the katana and plunged it through the middle of the pages.

Riddle screamed. Golden light erupted from his body and pieces of his form seemed to be flying away and vanishing. Black ink spurted from the book. Harry withdrew the sword and thrust it through the other half of the diary. The scream rose, echoing through the Chamber, before abruptly cutting off with a burst of light.

Harry's wand clattered to the floor.

Across the room, Ginny moaned and opened her eyes. Harry hurried to her side and dropped to his knees there, placing Darksun carefully on the ground beside him.

The young girl stared at him, then looked around the Chamber, noticing the snake's body and the diary on the floor most of all and the rubble of smashed statues and pillars lying against the dim walls least. She looked at Harry again, and abruptly, startlingly, burst into tears.

"…_hate it when they cry…_"

Harry himself had no idea what to do, and as Ginny began to stammer an explanation mixed with confession through her tears, he decided to treat her as he might Ron or Hermione when one of them was feeling down; he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke to reassure her as soon as she gave him a chance.

"It's okay, Ginny, calm down. Riddle's finished, _and_ the basilisk. Nothing to worry about. Just…just calm down, okay? I need to go get something, so stay right here and…take deep breaths, yeah?"

The distraught girl nodded, tears still streaming down her face, and she lay back down and followed his instructions, trying to calm her sobs. Harry waited a moment to make sure she wouldn't jump back up the instant he moved, then picked up Darksun and hurried over to where his body lay.

It was bizarre, seeing himself crumpled across the ground in bloody robes. He bent down to examine his arm, finding it completely whole and unmarked, though there was a hole in the sleeve where the fang had pierced it. Harry looked up for an answer, and his gaze met Fawkes'.

Phoenix tears. Dumbledore said that they had healing properties

He had to find a way to thank the bird later, as well as the Headmaster.

But at the moment…

_Darksun, how do I…_

"_Just touch it, and…I don't know how to explain it. It just sort of happens._"

Not feeling that this was very helpful at all, Harry nonetheless laid his hands on his body's shoulder. Something suddenly tugged at him, and before he knew it, he was blinking his eyes open behind blood-spattered glasses and Darksun was no longer in his hand or at his side.

_Where did you go?_

"_Still here, Harry. I'm part of your soul, remember? I'll be there next time you leave your body. You'll see."_

Funny, Harry suddenly realized as he stood up, brushed off his robes, and picked up Gryffindor's sword and the Sorting Hat. He had entered the Chamber thoroughly afraid of and disturbed by the strange voice in his head, wishing it would go away and leave him alone. Now, though, he was almost glad that it hadn't gone.

Harry picked up the diary on his way back to Ginny, who was no longer quite sobbing but was still very obviously distressed. He helped her awkwardly to her feet and they followed Fawkes out of the chamber and back along the passage until they finally heard the sound of rocks being shifted.

"Ron!" Harry sped up slightly, grabbing Ginny by the wrist and dragging her after him. "Ron, Ginny's okay – I've got her!"

They heard an excited shout, and Ron poked his head through the hole he had made in the rubble from the tunnel's earlier collapse.

"Ginny! You're alive! I don't believe it! What happened?"

He drew his sister through and tried to hug her, though she held him off, still crying. Harry clambered through himself and looked around; someone was missing.

"Where did that bird come from?"

"That's Fawkes. He's Dumbledore's."

"And why've you got a _sword_?"

"Later. Where's Lockhart?"

Ron hooked a thumb over his shoulder with a massive grin.

"Back that way a bit. He's in a bad way. Come see."

Sure enough, Lockhart was sitting at the pipe entrance, humming distractedly to himself and peering about in the gloom like it was the most interesting place he had ever been in.

"Why, hello!" he greeted them as they appeared. "What an odd place this is. Do you live here?"

"Er, no," Harry replied, not quite sure what to think or say. He looked at Ron in question, and the other boy shrugged, still grinning. Harry crossed over to the pipe and peered up it, noting that the sides were rather smooth and steep.

"How d'you suppose we'll get back out?" Ron wondered. Harry shrugged in reply and looked around for an answer.

"_The bird's acting weird._"

Harry directed his attention at Fawkes, who was flying in slow loops around them. The firebird met his gaze and fluttered to a stop in front of him, gently waving his tailfeathers before Harry's face. Understanding, Harry reached forward and grasped them.

"He'll take us," Harry said, "so everybody grab on to each other."

"No way," Ron protested, "We're way too heavy for a bird to carry like that!"

"Fawkes isn't an ordinary bird."

Ron stared for a moment at the phoenix. Then he nodded and, without further protest, set about stringing them all together. He tried to leave Lockhart behind, but Harry made the memory-less man grab hold of Ginny's free hand before he told Fawkes they were ready. Then a wonderful feeling of weightlessness spread through them, and Fawkes took off, shooting up the pipe with the string of humans in tow, Gilderoy Lockhart at the very end exclaiming in delight that it was "just like magic!"

Then, they were back in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and the entrance to the Chamber closed with a soft hiss.

"You didn't die," the little ghost said.

"Don't need to sound so disappointed," Harry muttered, not bothering to correct her statement. Technically, he _had_ died. He just didn't feel like explaining it to Ginny or Ron or…well, anyone, really.

"Oh. I'd just been thinking…if you had, you would've been welcome to share my toilet."

Harry winced at the sudden laughter in his head.

_Knock it off!_

The laughter subsided into chuckles, but didn't die away completely.

"Ugh," Ron said as they left the bathroom at long last, "I think Myrtle's gotten _fond _of you! You've got competition, Ginny."

"Oh, just be quiet," Harry retorted, stuffing his fists into his pockets.

"So…where now?"

Harry removed one hand to point at Fawkes, who was gliding down the corridor, lighting their way with a soft golden light. They followed the firebird all the way to the door of McGonagall's office, where he stopped. Harry and Ron glanced at each other, then at Lockhart (who was still humming absently and examining the moving paintings on the walls with childlike glee) and Ginny (who was crying more-or-less silently now and gripping Ron's hand so tightly it was turning red) and then at the door again.

Raising his hand, Harry knocked twice, then he pushed the door open.

For a moment, there was silence. And then…

"GINNY!"

Harry moved aside just in time to avoid Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who rushed by and practically threw themselves on their daughter. He looked further into the room to see McGonagall, breathing deeply with her hand on her chest, and Fawkes, who was now perched on Dumbledore's shoulder.

Then he couldn't see much of anything other than curly red hair, as Mrs. Weasley had swept him into a hug along with Ron.

"You saved her! _You saved her!_ How did you do it?"

"I think," McGonagall said, just a bit faintly, "we'd all like to know."

Harry hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to tell them the truth about being a death god and the sword who was a voice in his mind and dying. It didn't really seem like the sort of thing you…shared…with the living. Without thinking, without planning on it, his eyes sought out Dumbledore's. Their gazes met, and a knowing twinkle flashed above the Headmaster's half-moon spectacles. Harry felt Darksun stir in his mind, then abruptly settle again.

_What?_

"…_Nothing. Tell the story however you like."_

Harry reached a decision at last. He strode over to McGonagall's desk and placed the sword, the hat, and the diary on it. Then he began to tell everyone about hearing the monster in the walls, about discovering it was a basilisk, about finding out where the Chamber's entrance was, and about fighting the monster there. Anything about dying, Darksun, or death gods he omitted. He also avoided telling anything about Riddle or Ginny, but soon found that he couldn't go on with his explanation without doing so, and he looked to Dumbledore for help.

"What interests me," said the Headmaster, "is how Lord Voldemort was able to enchant Ginny when my sources tell me he is currently hiding in Albania."

Relief swept through Harry, and he snatched the diary up from the desk.

"It was this diary," he said, "Riddle wrote in it when he was sixteen."

"Brilliant," Dumbledore said, taking the little book and peering at it closely. "Of course, he may well have been one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has seen."

Harry then slumped against the desk, content to allow Dumbledore to finish out the explanation of Riddle and the diary's origins. The Headmaster sent Ginny out with her parents for hot chocolate and McGonagall to alert the kitchens for a celebratory feast. Harry stuck around , wanting to talk to Dumbledore – if anyone might be able to understand his suddenly realized powers, the wise old wizard would. Thankfully, Dumbledore seemed to understand this, and he sent Ron out with Lockhart, saying he wanted to talk to Harry briefly.

Relieved, Harry sagged into a chair.

"First of all, Harry," Dumbledore said, also taking a seat, "I want to thank you. You must have shown me real loyalty down there in the Chamber, for that is the only thing that might have called Fawkes to you."

"I really owe Fawkes for being there," Harry said sincerely. "I would've died…and stayed dead…if he hadn't been there."

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied. "Which reminds me: I have something to give you after the feast…but, oh, I have a meeting…no matter. It shall find its way to you by one means or another."

"Sir? How did you _know_?"

"I have met Reapers before. In fact, I know several, and some of them quite well. While interactions between the living and the dead are generally frowned upon, they found some of my services quite useful in the past, as well as my friendship."

"They? You mean…there's more?"

"Well of course, Harry! The realms of death are just as expansive as those of life, and quite thickly populated as well. It only stands to reason."

"…oh."

"Mm-hmm. Now, as interesting as this train of conversation is, there is also something else I wanted to talk to you about…Tom Riddle. I suppose he was _most_ interested in you."

"He…said that I was like him, sir. Strange likenesses or something…"

"Did he now? What do you think, Harry?"

"I don't think I'm like him! I'm – I'm in _Gryffindor_ – so I –"

He stopped abruptly in doubt.

"_Harry…_"

The boy shifted away from the soft voice and shook his head. "Professor? The sorting hat…it told me I'd – do well in Slytherin. And I can speak parseltongue…"

"You speak parseltongue because Voldemort can speak parseltongue. Unless I'm mistaken, he transferred some of his powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not his intention, I'm sure…"

"Some of _him_ is in _me_?"

"_Uh-oh."_

_What? …What?_

"_Don't know. That's what's troubling me. I just don't know if there's something…else in here._"

Harry began to feel very, very nervous. It wasn't a nice feeling, especially on top of his previous doubt.

"That's not a good thing, is it?" he said aloud, "And I should've been in Slytherin. The hat could see it, and—"

"It put you in Gryffindor anyhow."

"Only because I asked it to!"

"Exactly! Harry, that is what makes you so very _different_ from Riddle. You may share certain qualities that Slytherin values – resourcefulness, determination, a certain…_disregard_ for the rules…" his moustache twitched, "but you made a choice. It is our _choices_, Harry, far more than our abilities, that make us who we are. In addition, Harry, did you ever take a good look at that sword?"

"Er, yeah, a bit. It's got Gryffindor's name on it, doesn't it?"

"That is another point of proof – only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that from the hat."

Harry regarded it silently for a long moment, thinking hard. Darksun nudged him for attention, and he turned it inward briefly.

"_You're a brave kid, Harry," _the sword said with brash sincerity, _"and I know you're too strong to let something this stupid get you down. So quit doubting. What House you belong to doesn't matter – your friends are where you belong. Got that?_"

Harry thought of them. He felt his spirits lift and swell.

"_Better…much better._"

"Now," Dumbledore said at last, pulling out parchment and writing utensils, "I daresay that food and a good night's rest should make you feel better. I suggest you go down to the feast now, Harry – I have a letter to write to Azkaban. We need our gamekeeper back. I suppose I should also draft an advertisement for the _Daily Prophet_ for a new Defense teacher…we do seem to run through those, don't we?"

Harry stood and walked to the door. Before he could reach the knob, however, it burst open and a furious Lucius Malfoy swept inside. To Harry's shock, Dobby followed close on his heels.

"Good evening, Lucius," Dumbledore said, very pleasantly.

Harry tuned out their conversation, his eyes fixed on Dobby. The strange little elf was looking at him with great meaning in his tennis-ball eyes, pointing at the diary, then at Malfoy, then beaning himself across the head…rather hard.

"_Make him stop that!_"

_Won't work_, Harry replied distractedly, looking between Lucius and the diary as a suspicion flared in his mind. Abruptly, he nodded at Dobby, who retreated to a corner to wring his ears.

"Don't you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr. Malfoy?" Harry said loudly, not particularly caring if he interrupted the man or not.

"How should I know?"

"Because you gave it to her," Harry said quickly, more and more pieces falling into place. "In Flourish and Blotts. You picked up that old book of hers and slipped the diary inside, didn't you?"

"…_kid, you're brilliant_."

"Prove it," Malfoy hissed, clenching his hands.

"Oh, no one will be able to do that now," Dumbledore said, quite cheerfully. "Not now that Riddle's spirit is gone from the book. However, I would advise you to avoid giving out any more of Voldemort's old school things. If any more find their way into innocent hands, I dare say that Arthur Weasley, for instance, would make sure they are traced back to you…"

Malfoy's right hand twitched. A flare of instinct in Harry had him longing for Darksun's reassuring hilt, but as soon as the sensation appeared, it vanished. Rather than drawing his wand, Malfoy whirled around and marched out of the room.

"We're going, Dobby!"

The elf came hurrying up and the man kicked him out of the room. Dobby's pained squeal echoed down the long corridor outside.

The murderous rage in Harry's mind was all Darksun's, and the boy ignored it in favor of a more prudent plan than _tear soul from body and cut that…_Harry mentally censored the word Darksun used_…down!_

"Professor Dumbledore? Could I have the diary? I want to give it back to Malfoy."

"Certainly," the headmaster replied, "but do hurry. The feast, remember."

Harry snatched the diary up and hurried out into the corridor, pausing just long enough to tear a sock from his foot and stuff the little book inside of it. He could still hear Dobby's squeals when he caught up to them at the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy! I've got something for you."

The man turned around. Harry skidded to a halt and thrust the sock-wrapped diary into Malfoy's hand. He tore the sock from the book and flung it to the side in disgust, then looked from the book to Harry and back again, rage coloring his pale face.

"You'll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry Potter," he hissed, "They were meddlesome fools, too. Come, Dobby."

He turned about abruptly and strode down the stairs, stopping halfway when he realized that the elf wasn't responding.

"I said _come_!"

Dobby didn't move, but instead held up Harry's sock like it was the greatest treasure in the world.

"Master gave Dobby a sock," he said in reverent joy, "Master threw it…and Dobby caught it…and Dobby…Dobby is _free!_"

Malfoy froze, then he suddenly charged up the stairs, leaping at Harry in anger. The boy froze, and Darksun's presence suddenly swelled in his mind, pressing him to the side –

"_Let me--!"_

Harry couldn't control his body; he could only watch and feel as it suddenly shifted into a grounded stance, turned half to the side, picking up a leg to kick as Malfoy drew closer…

"You shall not harm Harry Potter!"

With a snap and a flash of light, Malfoy was sent bouncing down the stairs to land in a crumpled heap of limbs and dark robes on the landing. Harry's body was still frozen in preparation for a kick, and the wizard struggled suddenly, feeling horribly vulnerable and out-of-sorts not being in control of himself.

_Let go!_

A realization of something seemed to flash through Darksun, and he retreated abruptly, placing Harry back at the helm of his mind. The boy stumbled, easily losing the balance that Darksun had been maintaining for him.

_Please,_ he gasped in his mind, propping himself against the wall, _don't do that again!_

Darksun didn't answer.

"Harry Potter freed Dobby!"

Suddenly, there was an elf wrapped around his middle, sobbing its too-big eyes out.

"Least I could do, Dobby. Just promise you won't try to save my life again."

Dobby grinned.

"I'd better go," Harry said. "There's a feast, and my friend should be awake by now…"

"Harry Potter is greater than Dobby ever knew!" the elf sobbed, squeezing tighter. "Farewell, Harry Potter!"

With a crack, the elf finally vanished.

* * *

The feast lasted all night, and in all the rush and noise it was easy to forget, for a time, the discomfort of his last encounter with Darksun. When everybody finally stumbled to bed at seven in the morning, however, Harry's mind was forcibly returned to his predicament by the sight of a small package wrapped in brown paper and set on his pillow.

_-- For convenience _— said the loopy handwriting, and Harry drew the curtains around his bed to open it in peace.

Inside there was a small, round pendant made of something like bronze. It was simple in design, with a skull motif raised in relief in its center and a hole at the top that connected it to a long black cord, rather like a necklace. Harry fingered the pendant and thought he felt a faint stirring of deadly power inside.

…_Darksun? Are you there?_

Silence answered. Harry flopped back onto his pillow with a sigh. He was still dressed in his torn and stained clothing, having been too tired to do much more than tug his shoes and one remaining sock off before clambering onto the bed.

_I…guess I didn't like it when you did that. Sorry I snapped at you, it was just…_

"…_Really uncomfortable."_

Harry shut his eyes and nodded, knowing that even though Darksun probably couldn't see him, he would sense the gesture the same way Harry sensed his soulcutter's movements and emotions from time to time.

"_I understand…and that's why I'm so disgusted with myself._"

Harry couldn't think of anything to say, so he didn't. Instead, the two of them simply sat in each other's mental presence for a long time, communicating without words and without clear feelings, even. When Harry finally opened his eyes again, he thought he understood a bit more.

_You can't promise never again…_

"_Because if it could save a life I'd do anything in an instant…"_

…_but you'll at least give warning…_

"…_ask you first…"_

…_and I'll seriously consider it…_

"…_and I'll teach you, train you, so that I won't _have_ to put you through that…"_

_It's a deal._

"_Yeah._"

Harry ran his thumb over the pendant's edge, feeling the power in it, but not touching that power just yet.

"_Careful. That's dangerous in the hands of normal humans; you'll want to keep it away from everyone else."_

_What is it?_

"_A device that separates a soul from a body. In your case, it'll force you out into your spirit form."_

_Does it do anything else?_

"_If it's anything like the one I've seen, it might light up and make noise if a hollow appears."_

…_Hollow?_

"_Bad soul. A monster that eats good spirits. I'll see if we can't fight a few this summer for training."_

_Sounds like fun._

Harry drew the pendant's loop over his head, yawned, and took his glasses off. Utterly exhausted, he turned over on his side without bothering with the blankets and began to drift off to sleep.

The last thing he heard was his soulcutter's echoing voice giving him a cheerful promise.

"_Oh, it will be…_"

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

A/N: First of all, regarding the appearance of Ichisword's shikai release, specifically the crossguard – the guard is in the shape of a rather simple kanji for the word 'king,' or '_ou_.' The kanji is simple when you see it drawn out, but it is very hard to describe. In addition, since it was from Harry's point of view, I couldn't call it a kanji. To him, it's a bunch of bars crossing each other at perfect right angles. If you want to see the actual appearance of this crossguard, I suggest google images. Type in 'Kanji – king' and you'll see it pretty quickly. It's just three parallel lines of differing lengths crossing over a fourth.

Just so you know, the idea of using this kanji as the crossguard was not originally mine. This belongs to Dark Sun Upon An Icy Sky, who I mentioned last chapter – I quite liked this aspect of her idea and so I asked if I could copy it directly. I did get permission first.

Some of you might be wondering now…why is Darksun's sealed form a western sword and his shikai a katana? What gives?

First off, I figure that each culture will prefer sealing their weapons in a form most easily related to that culture. Therefore Japanese shinigami will start out with a katana simply because a katana is Japanese, whereas an English reaper will start out with a dual-edged blade of some kind simply because it relates to the English culture. It has more to do with the society which the shinigami is part of than the shinigami or the zanpakuto itself.

For the shikai and bankai releases, I must admit to having a bit of fun here. I'm implementing an idea that the shikai is the sword form most appreciated by the zanpakuto, while the bankai is the sword form most appreciated by the shinigami, albeit exploded in size or effect five or ten times by the sheer power of it. These forms can be radically different (Zangetsu's cleaver vs. Ichigo's daito) or very much the same (Senbonzakura's sword shards vs. Byakuya's sword shards). Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't; I just wanted to explain my reasoning for the cultural changes you'll see in blade shapes here.

Much of this – especially certain bits of dialogue – may look very, _very _familiar. I did try to vary the words as much as I could, but at this point so little has changed that I figure the characters' interactions will be much the same as they were in the books. As such, yes, certain quotes come almost directly from Rowling's work. I did, however, refrain from copying loads of description and narration – it's limited to dialogue here.

Last off, but certainly not the least, I want to send out a mass THANK YOU to everyone who added my story to their Alerts or Favorites list. I responded to reviews individually, but if I tried that with everything else I might've spent more time sending out thanks than writing this chapter. I appreciate the responses, everyone…


	3. Chapter 3

The morning began quietly, with a calm cheerfulness that promised bright blue skies and soft clouds for the rest of the day. A breeze ruffled treetops and tall grass gently, and the cool of the night air had not yet dispersed, providing a comfortable contrast with the brilliant sunlight.

High in a tower of an ancient castle, a very old man stood in front of an open window and enjoyed the moment. He cradled a silvery teacup in both hands, his back facing the massive desk and the paperwork spread across it, abandoned for just a few minutes. Just a few. For while Hogwarts was a school, and while it was allowed to rest for a number of months each summer, the work to keep it up and running was never truly finished, especially not for the headmaster.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, relishing the morning for a moment more. He was procrastinating slightly, he realized, and he turned around at last to return to his desk.

Suddenly, the old man paused. A smile twitched at the corners of his impressive silver moustache.

A familiar presence was approaching at speeds beyond the ability of any normal human. It was nearly at the gates – now it was halfway across the grounds – now at the front doors, pausing there, probably to either open them or slip through in that unusual way of theirs…

Dumbledore hummed as he sat down behind his desk and set his cup of tea to the side. Reaching into a deep drawer, he withdrew a tin of the lemon drops he loved so much, popped the lid open, and stuck a yellow candy into his mouth. Sucking on the sweet happily, the old man picked up his wand from its stand and flicked it at the door, which opened to reveal a surprised-looking man in a long black coat with a fist raised to knock.

The stranger blinked. Dumbledore simply smiled and held up the open tin of lemon drops in wordless invitation. The stranger lowered his fist with a sudden laugh and entered the office.

"How did you _know_?" he asked, plucking a candy from the tin and popping it into his mouth with a grin. Dumbledore waved his wand and the door closed; he waved it again, and a comfortable chair drew itself up for the other man.

"My dear friend, I simply make it my _business_ to know. After all, I am headmaster of this school – it only makes sense that I would keep an eye out for visitors. It's hard to be properly courteous otherwise. Besides, have you forgotten? I have always been able to sense auras just as well as any reaper can."

"Hmm. True," the man replied. He unbuckled the sword at his waist and leaned it against the arm of the chair before sitting down himself. "Though I was trying to keep it fairly subdued."

"I think you did quite well, actually," Dumbledore replied, replacing the lid on the candy tin and tucking it away again. "I hardly noticed you until you were practically at our gates – and once there, the wards did register you briefly, so I would have known anyhow."

"True," the man agreed once again. There was a brief silence.

"Well, then, Richard," Dumbledore said at last, "to what do I owe this visit? Is everything all right with Harry?"

"Mostly," Richard replied, shrugging a little uncomfortably. "I mean, he's not gotten hurt or in trouble or anything. I'm just here to bring you up to date and because…well, I'm a bit concerned about some things, but I want to run them by you before I do anything, since you're the one who called in this favor and all."

Dumbledore nodded gravely, indicating that Richard should go ahead. The younger-looking man sighed and ran both hands through his brown, shoulder-length hair.

"Right. Well, I suppose I'll just start at the beginning, and then explain what I see as a…potential problem. Okay…

"When I first started keeping an eye on this kid for you, I didn't see anything special – about his fighting style, I mean, or even his movements in general. You probably already know this, but there are certain ways people move when they're used to fighting. Harry had none of that…he was just a normal boy in everything he did."

He paused, and Dumbledore nodded and hummed to show that he was listening and, yes, he had understood.

"But then, one day in the first week, he went out to a park near the Dursley house and things got a bit strange. The way he stood suddenly changed, and it was a fighter's sort of standing, even though it was casual at first. Then he dropped into some sort of martial arts stance like he'd been doing it for years. Harry ran through punches as though he'd been born doing them, stood up straight again, and then suddenly relaxed.

"_Then_ he went back to the stance, only it wasn't…the same. You know? It was more like a novice than someone who'd practiced half their life. Same thing with the punches. He kept doing them over and over, sometimes right, sometimes wrong. Sometimes he stopped to correct himself – sharply, like he was absolutely certain of the movement – then he'd go back to being unsure about things. This went on for weeks, always the same way whether he was doing simple punches or these complicated spinning kicks – first perfectly, then like a pure beginner."

"And this concerns you?" Dumbledore prodded, his eyes twinkling like those of a five year old with a secret.

Richard merely nodded, fixing his pale blue eyes on Dumbledore's bright ones. The headmaster held his gaze for a long moment before leaning back and fingering his beard thoughtfully. It did nothing to hide his smile.

"That's not all, is it, Richard?"

"No, not entirely. Just a couple weeks ago, Harry started to go after hollows. He'd ignored the pendant before, and I've been keeping them off his back, but then one day he just up and searched out the hollow aura on his own. He knew exactly what he was doing, too – he attacked the mask right off the bat and didn't blink an eye when the spirit dissolved. I never once stepped in to explain what hollows were, what they looked like, how to defeat them, or what happened when one is purified.

"Ever since that first one, he's gone about it in different ways, too. Sometimes he charges in with his aura blazing and sometimes it never even breaks into the air. Sometimes he unseals his spirit blade right away and sometimes he keeps it locked. It's like some kind of bizarre training regimen…all of it is. _That's_ what's got me worried, Albus."

"Really? Speaking for myself, I'm rather glad that he's learning so quickly."

Richard leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

"That's just it," he replied, his voice muffled somewhat, "he's learning _too_ quickly to just be picking things up himself. I've not approached him, as you asked, and I'm the only reaper in that town aside from Harry himself. He's not gone to any mortal martial artists – he's consulted _no one_ before, during, or after these practices as far as I've seen, and while I've stayed at a distance, it'd be really hard to hide something like that. There's only one thing that could possibly account for this."

"Would you, perhaps, be speaking of that delightful young man I had the pleasure of briefly meeting just a couple of months ago?" Dumbledore asked blithely, still leaning back in his chair and looking very comfortable for it. "The one in Harry's mind?" he prodded further when Richard made no immediate response.

"If you're talking about his spirit blade, yes," the reaper finally replied.

"Ah. Well, no troubles, in that case. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Richard looked up at the old headmaster in disbelief.

"No troubles? Albus, you don't understand – if that's the case, we could have nothing _but _trouble."

"I must _not_ understand, then. You've already explained so much, so please, let me offer again: would you care for tea? Your throat must be parched by now."

"I'm fi—oh, all right. Just, please, let me handle my own sugar this time."

"But of course," Dumbledore replied as though he had never considered anything contrary, passing a fresh cup across the desk along with the sugar bowl.

"Right, if we're done stalling…"

Richard fixed Dumbledore with a hard look. The headmaster brushed it off easily.

"Go on, then."

"Here's the thing: spirit blades aren't supposed to get involved. It's just not in their structure for the most part. Generally speaking, they offer distant guidance through words, riddles sometimes, questions to ponder. Occasionally one might make up a test for its wielder, but that's rare. Even reapers who've achieved the true form of their swords don't necessarily have _practice sessions_ with them. That level of connectedness is rare even at that stage. It's too early for Harry to be that close to his blade, so there's only two real possibilities."

Richard paused to take a quick gulp of tea. As much as he hadn't wanted to admit it, talking so much was beginning to make his throat dry. Dumbledore, blast him, was giving him another knowing look.

"One," he continued, raising one finger, "the spirit blade has its own agenda and is using the reaper. This is rarely a good thing."

Richard raised another finger.

"Two, the spirit blade is of an unusually violent or aggressive type. This sort of goes with the agenda thing – it wants battle, it wants to fight, so it starts pressing its reaper to learn as fast as he can, just so it can have that enjoyment. This can have an effect on Harry's thinking, and really, I've gotten fond of the kid just from what I've seen of him so far. I'd hate to see a good guy like him get twisted that way."

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant.

"Are these the only two possibilities?" he murmured at last.

"Pretty much. You just don't find many blades so…_active_ otherwise."

"Hmm."

"And, really, it goes beyond that, even. If it was just a blade training him in his mind now and again or just offering advice as he trained physically, it'd be bad enough. But remember what I was telling you, about Harry's switching from proficient to novice and back again in his practice?"

"You think that this spirit blade had something to do with it?"

"I think it had everything to do with it. I think that it keeps taking control of Harry's body…and that's _really_ bad."

"Are the blades simply not supposed to do so?"

"Albus, if I _begged_ my Starshot to take control of my body, no matter how dire the circumstances, he'd say _no_. To have a spirit blade that's willing to go that far, and just for simple training…I'm worried, to be honest."

"And I am conflicted, old friend," Dumbledore replied with a rare bluntness of honesty. For an instant, he appeared more tired than he had before, closer to his age. "On the one hand, I have always trusted your judgment, and to be completely honest, you have a greater store of knowledge concerning these matters than I do. But on the other, I did have the pleasure of meeting Harry's spirit blade a short time ago. I admit that the contact was brief, but I felt no unease in his presence – I have always prided myself on my ability to read individuals by first instinct."

"You've misread people before."

"If you're referring to Riddle, I never misread him. Even upon our first meting, I felt some slight stirring of apprehension. At the time, however, I did not trust my own feelings, and so I ignored it – even attributed it to the gloomy surroundings or a leftover prejudice when the boy mentioned speaking to snakes. Based on the mistrust of my own emotion, I made the serious mistake if inaction. This time, I refuse to make that same error in reverse."

Richard stared at Dumbledore for a long while, then dropped his gaze to study the reddish surface of the tea in his silver cup. His own reflection, faded, distorted, and discolored, stared back at him.

"So we don't do anything about it?"

"I daresay that we don't _need_ to do anything."

"…Right, then." Richard drained the last of his tea in a quick, decisive gesture, setting the empty cup back on the desk before him carefully. "But if something _does_ happen, on your own conscience be it. Maybe this sounds cold, but I'm denying any part of mine right now – I don't think I can handle the idea of that boy…on my watch…just, no."

"I wouldn't blame you at all in that case," Dumbledore assured him solemnly, "but you won't have to worry about it. You'll see."

"We'll see," Richard said, though he made it sound far gloomier. He glanced around, found the sole clock in Dumbledore's office that told time with two hands and twelve numbers rather than twelve hands and a moving ring of planets, and stood up at last, stretching.

"Well, I should probably be getting back now," he said, picking up his sheathed sword and buckling it back onto his belt. "I expect Harry's up and running around by this time. Thanks for the tea, Albus – we'll have to catch up with each other another time."

"Richard, wait."

The reaper, who had been moving toward the door, stopped and turned around, looking at the headmaster curiously. The morning sunlight shining through the window caught on the white six-pointed star shape on the shoulder of his coat and on the Roman numeral _VI_ underneath it as he turned, filling both with light for just a moment.

"Have they given it any more thought?" Dumbledore asked, still quite serious.

Richard's shoulders slumped and he shook his head.

"I brought it up again at the last meeting, but they're still mostly against the idea. I think some can be persuaded, but it'd take a bad circumstance coming up or an emergency of sorts to get them to accept it. Sorry, old friend – I tried."

"I know you did…it's just a shame. I feel I can trust that blade you are so concerned about, but I cannot trust what Black may do – it has been too long since I last saw him, and the Dark Arts can change a man utterly. This is one thing I do not want to leave to chance."

"Albus…I promised you earlier this summer that I'd keep an eye on Harry. That won't change. And if a situation comes up, or something happens where he could be in too much danger…I'll just take him, and the council can work it out afterwards. He'd be safe for a little while longer at least, that way."

"That would be much appreciated," Dumbledore said, nodding gratefully. Richard nodded back, then turned and finally left the headmaster's office.

Left alone once again, Dumbledore reached for his quill and got back to work, though his thoughts were never far from a dark-haired boy or from the burning, protective power in his soul.

* * *

The day had started out beautifully and perfectly normal. As the afternoon wore on, however, Harry gradually began to experience the niggling feeling of having forgotten something important – so much so that he kept checking to make sure that the sword swinging at his waist was still there and that he had run back twice to see that his body was hidden in the tree in the park just as he had left it an hour ago. Everything that Harry could think of was in order, yet still the feeling persisted.

Darksun, when Harry asked him if he knew of anything, was just as puzzled.

As the emotion grew, Harry also got the distinct impression that whatever he had forgotten about was _bad_.

_Very _bad.

"Dark?" Harry said aloud. He had no worries of others hearing him – the people driving or walking along the street below could no more see him than they could the wind itself. "I think we should cut today short. I really don't like this…"

"_I know,_" Darksun replied, more quietly than was normal for him, perhaps. "_Go ahead, then. You've done good today anyhow…not much point staying out much longer._"

Harry smiled at the praise and stood up. Turning to face the direction of the park, he crouched briefly, then suddenly thrust forward, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, guided across the insane heights and distances by spirit particles in the air. Darksun had taught him this trick a week ago, and despite the terrifying quality of the initial lesson (suddenly realizing that your body had effectively thrown itself off of a tall building without your express permission was not a fun thing to experience), Harry soon found that he quite enjoyed it. It wasn't quite flying, but in a place where he couldn't exactly go out on his broom for the fun of it, this would do him just fine.

As he leapt the width of a two-lane street, Harry's grin stretched wider. Darksun had said, after that lesson, that these insane jumps were just the beginning – that there was so, so much more to learn. At times like this, with the wind rushing by his face and his feet pressing against thin air that he had made solid with a thought, Harry could hardly wait to see what his sword would teach him next.

Thanks to his _as-the-crow-flies_ route, Harry reached the park in short order and soon found the tree he had stored his body in. Slumped in the crook between a thick branch and the trunk, with its arms crossed over its stomach and its eyes closed, Harry's body looked like nothing more than a young boy who had simply climbed up and fallen asleep there. It wasn't the greatest hiding place, nor would it deter anyone who got it in their heads that trees were no places to be taking a nap, but until he found a better solution, the tree would have to do.

He used his room for this purpose as seldom as possible. After all, Harry didn't want to think of what might happen if his relatives suddenly came upon his seemingly dead body one day. That was not something he wanted to explain, assuming he even got there before they managed to call the undertakers.

Snapping himself back into his body, Harry sat up on the tree branch, arched his back to straighten out the kinks that had developed from the hours it had spent curved against the fork of the tree, and jumped down. Still working the stiffness out of his limbs, Harry set off toward the Dursley house.

As he drew near the residence he was forced to call 'home' each summer, the feeling of foreboding grew stronger still. Harry started to wonder if there was some small chore or household task he had forgotten about; the Dursleys weren't being quite as hard on him this summer in terms of working around the house and yard, but he still didn't want to risk his uncle's anger.

"_You kidding? We can take that tub of lard, easy!_"

Old habits die hard.

He stuck his hands in his jean pockets, thinking furiously. No, no chores as far as he could remember, but there was definitely something happening today…nothing specific to him, though he didn't think it was anything he _liked_…

Harry shuffled up the walk to the front door, scuffed the bottoms of his shoes clean on the welcome mat, and opened the door. Not bothering to announce his presence – the Dursleys probably already knew, and they wouldn't care – he headed straight for the stairs. Perhaps he would remember once he got up to his r—

_Grrrrrrrr…_

Harry frowned and looked around.

Growling?

…_RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…._

A memory from years ago struck him, and he whipped his head around, staring at the entrance to the kitchen in horror.

Ripper the bulldog, in all his squat, thick-jowled, sharp-toothed glory, glared at him with more hatred than Harry had ever seen in an animal – and this included Fluffy – growling fit to make the floorboards tremble.

In his shock, Harry made a mistake: he met the dog's eyes.

With a fantastic bark, Ripper lunged. Harry, still too surprised and too off-guard to move out of the way, went down under a hundred pounds of angry dog.

_Get him off, get him off, get it off!_

Slobber and white teeth and dangling jowls filled Harry's vision, flashing from place to place too quickly for Harry to follow. Heavy paws tipped with claws dug into his stomach and chest, cutting off his air. Ripper was barking, and Harry's ears rang with each burst of noise, so much so that he could barely hear Darksun inside his own head.

"_Get your feet up, your feet – here, I can--!"_

_Take it!_ Harry shoved himself aside in his own mind, a neat little trick he had learned weeks ago. _Just don't hurt it!_

Ripper was Marge's dog, and Marge's visit was what he had forgotten – too late remembering now – but that meant she was here, and if Harry actually ended up hurting Ripper – nevermind that he was, at that very moment, only barely holding those flashing teeth away from his face and neck – she'd kill him and turn him into dog food for her other inbred little monsters…

Darksun took control of Harry's body, and the boy could only watch and feel as his legs drew up, quickly working themselves into a position just under the dog's round belly, and his arms shifted position, hands gaining a sudden grip on the thick folds of skin around Ripper's throat. His muscles tensed, preparing to thrust and kick…

"RIPPER! Enough! Heel, boy!"

Abruptly, the dog tore himself loose from Harry/Darksun's grip and practically flew across the room to the side of a very large woman who looked very much like Vernon Dursley. Harry felt his body get up onto its feet; he mentally nudged Darksun, who suddenly remembered just where they were and quickly withdrew, allowing Harry the reins again.

Marjorie Dursley, bent over as far as the folds of fat around her middle allowed her to go, gave the practically-dancing Ripper an approving pat on the head.

"There's a boy," she praised roundly, eyeing Harry like he was something one of her dogs had left on the lawn – no, like he was something some _other_ dog had left on the lawn. "Clever dog. Always did have a nose for vagrants and the like, didn't you?"

Harry's middle ached and stung abominably. Hopefully it was just bruised, but he felt uncomfortable looking down to check for bloodstains or anything while Marge was staring at him so malevolently. Equally uncomfortable was the notion of edging away and escaping upstairs; it was as though her gaze was a sword which, while it hadn't quite pinned him yet, was threatening to do so if he made one wrong move.

"You, boy," she suddenly barked, so much like one of her dogs that Harry felt hard-pressed not to jump. "Still here, are you?"

"Er…yes." Harry caught sight of Uncle Vernon standing in the doorway behind Marge, giving him a look like a wide-eyed glare.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry corrected himself. Darksun expressed his displeasure with this honorific, but Harry had little choice at the moment.

_The permission slip, remember the permission slip._

Harry realized that he had to be at least vaguely civil for the one week that Marge would be here. He also realized that, for this one week, he was also going to be spending a _lot_ of time out of the house. The Dursleys shouldn't mind much; they always liked him better out of sight and hearing, and it'd give their cover story for Marge that much more credit if they spun it right…which they would.

What was that school name again? St. Brutus' secure something for incurably criminal boys?

"_What a load of_…" Darksun had sworn when Uncle Vernon first informed Harry of this little lie they had been telling anyone who asked after him for the past two years.

_Just remember the permission slip_.

"Shame, that," Marge grunted, finally removing her gaze from Harry to waddle out into the living room proper. She dropped herself on the couch; it creaked alarmingly under her. Aunt Petunia, whose skinny frame had been hidden behind Marge's oversized one, winced visibly at this sound.

"If it'd been me you were dumped on," Marge continued loudly, "I'd've tossed you right into an orphanage. It's a selfless thing you did, Vernon, Petunia. Selfless…and thankless, too, I'd wager."

Harry spent this entire monologue edging toward the stairs. The moment he was close enough, he turned about and bolted up them, though not fast enough to escape hearing one last parting remark from Marge.

"He's got the look of a cur about him, and something like that's all in the parentage I say. Why, just this last –"

Harry ducked into his room and shut the door, muffling himself in blessed silence.

Darksun was seething.

"_I can't believe that_—"

_Don't, Dark. It's not that important._

Harry closed his eyes and tried to make himself believe that.

The permission slip. The slip was what was important. Anything Marge said was nothing but words, and words didn't matter too much in the end.

"…_Don't lie, Harry. You and I both know words can hurt,_" Darksun said, quietly this time. He then sank away from Harry's immediate conscious, returning to the deeper section of his soul once again. Harry sighed, not bothering to respond to the sword just yet, and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. The jab at his dead parents resurfaced in his mind, and he shoved it away quickly, brutally.

Harry rolled his T-shirt up to check his torso for bruising or scratches left by Ripper's claws. Finding little damage, and none of that really serious, he moved to the open window over his desk and looked out at the clear blue sky. The abrasive tones of Marge's over-loud voice floated up from a downstairs window; Harry grimaced.

It was going to be a very long week.

* * *

True to his expectations, Harry spent every moment possible outside either practicing in his physical form in the park or running laps across the neighborhood's rooftops in reaper form. He still had to deal with Marge in the mornings and evenings, but at least all of this exercise helped drain him of any tension the early meetings caused and, if he got tired enough, the evenings swept by in a weary buzz through which he could barely hear the oversized woman's taunts and jeers.

Also true to his expectations, none of the Dursleys seemed to mind very much. Marge went at him with a vengeance whenever he was in sight, so he supposed that he might be depriving her of a favorite activity by spending the day outside, but truth be told, he didn't care at all. Even when Marge had loudly supposed, one night around the supper table, that he was probably off with a gang painting graffiti across buildings and generally destroying this peaceful little corner of the world, Harry found that he could brush the comment off like it was nothing. The Dursleys just seemed happy that he wasn't doing anything that could destroy their St. Brutus' story. Admittedly, Vernon _had_ pulled him aside the next day before he could leave and asked what he was doing, and was it any of that…_that stuff his parents were part of_?

Harry assured him, with complete honesty, that he wasn't practicing ma—that—and he was just spending the day in the park by himself. Vernon just grunted and let him go, not caring beyond the point that Harry wasn't performing magic where their perfectly normal neighbors could see.

Admittedly, Harry thought as he left the house that day, the 'by himself' portion was a bit of a stretch. He had Darksun with him, after all. As far as the Dursleys were concerned, however, the spirit blade did not exist.

"_Too much trouble, am I?"_

_In this place, definitely._

That was another thing that filled his day. Harry didn't have the stamina to spend hours upon hours running about under the hot summer sun, and it would probably do him more harm than good even if he _did_, so scattered portions of his day were now spent lounging under a shady tree or sitting on a swing, conversing quietly with Darksun in his mind. Sometimes it was about training: things to be done better, things he had done well in, things that he might teach him soon, if he kept this up.

Other times, and these were Harry's favorites, they simply sat, either in comfortable silence or talking aimlessly about anything that came to mind.

Once, when evening was drawing close and neither one felt like leaving just yet, they looked at the reddening sky and Darksun had said, very quietly, "_You know, I never really liked sunsets_._ They're too much like endings._"

_They are pretty, though_.

"_Yeah, they are, but I still don't like them. You can dislike something pretty and you can like something ugly – there's no rule saying otherwise, and if there was, I think I'd break it anyhow._"

_Still,_ Harry thought lazily, _I think I'd rather see a pretty ending than an ugly one. Besides, we know that the sun'll be back, so it's not a _real_ ending, is it? Not a forever one._

"_You can't be absolutely certain of that_," Darksun muttered, clearly wanting an ending to this conversation. It seemed to be bringing back some sort of memory to the sword. So Harry backed off, stood up, and walked back to the house and Marge's cruel comments and the uncaring Dursleys.

Another day came, and the sword expressed another strange dislike: of all things, _bunnies_.

"_I can't help it!_" he said, raising his voice against Harry's disbelieving snickers, "_Thanks to a certain _artist_, they look _evil_ to me now! I'm serious, _look at that thing!_"_

'That thing' was a pure white rabbit in the arms of a little girl playing in the park with her parents. The creature was clearly a pet, as it wore a pink collar and seemed perfectly content to let the little girl stroke its soft-furred back as it nibbled on the green summer grass.

_I think it looks…nice_.

Harry was more open about his thoughts and opinions with Darksun than he would be with anyone on the outside, but even he had his limits; there was no way, in heaven or in hell, that he was going to use the word _cute_ to describe anything.

"_Evil_," the sword repeated firmly, shuddering in something like revulsion. Underneath that shudder, however, Harry thought he felt a flash of longing, and he had to wonder if the sword was telling him the truth…at the very least, he was leaving something out. Harry was curious, but he didn't know how he would go about asking – that bit of feeling was obviously not something he was meant to sense, and even between them, there was still a sort of privacy.

_So, if I ever got another pet,_ Harry said, tugging at Darksun's attention, _when I'm an adult, I mean, it shouldn't be a rabbit of any sort?_

"_Not if you want any mental peace," _the sword said with dark promise.

Harry chuckled.

"_No cats either," _said the sword, warming up a bit with the slight change in their conversation, "_they look at you, and you know they're thinking, but you don't know _what_. It's a little creepy. Plus, you can never be too sure if a cat's really a cat or not._"

…_why do I feel like you're embarrassed?_

"_Nothing important._"

He bit it out too quickly for Harry to believe. Some of that disbelief seeped across their bond; Darksun immediately told Harry to "_shut up_" even though nothing had been said.

_Rabbits are evil and cats are creepy,_ Harry said, feeling rather amused despite himself. _Is there an animal out there you _do _like?_

Darksun gave off the feeling of having shrugged.

"_Dogs're okay. Sometimes birds. Hedwig isn't bad_."

_No_, Harry thought with a swell of affection, _no, she's not bad at all._

He missed her, but really, it was for her own good that he'd sent her off to stay with the Weasleys. Anything vaguely wizardly had to be well-hidden in his room, and an abnormally vocal snowy owl just wasn't something that could be packed away under the loose floorboard. And with Ripper, that monster, roaming the house…

"_Okay, so _some_ dogs're okay. Not that one, and definitely not the one that brought him with her._"

_Do you know how hard it is to be polite and keep from laughing when you make comments like that? You're going to get me in trouble!_

"_I'm not worried. You've got self-control at least. If it were me—"_

_If it were you,_ Harry cut across him, _you'd probably be on the run, up for murder charges…or at least assault ones._

Goodness knew Darksun had made enough comments to that effect over the past six days. His temper was, truthfully, something that bordered on frightening.

"_Nah,"_ the sword replied, "_I wouldn't just _kill_ someone like that. In fact, she's so physically inept that I normally wouldn't even want to hit her. Too unfair. But I hate bullies, so she might get a kick to the face at least, plus a good earful. I've already picked out a few choice words._"

_Knowing you, I don't want to hear them. Thanks anyhow._

"_Spoilsport_."

At that moment, the pendant began to beep loudly. Harry took a quick glance around the park; it was empty, the little family and their rabbit leaving through the gate at that moment. The boy quickly settled himself more firmly against the tree, closed his eyes, and brought his hand up to the pendant.

One quick press and a flex of power, and Harry stood outside his body in his grey and black soul reaper attire. He stretched his senses out – something he'd had to learn on his own, as Darksun proclaimed himself terrible at sensing energy – and soon found the weak spot in space through which the hollow would enter their world.

Harry jumped up into the air and began to sprint in that direction.

_Anything special this time_?

"_Use the release right off,_" Darksun replied, "_And see if you can't channel your energy down the blade to make it burn like I showed you the other day."_

Harry sped onwards with a smile, preparing for the challenge that his blade had set.

Despite Marge and the Dursleys, despite having to deal with Ripper and missing Hedwig, at times like this he could feel as though this was the best summer he had ever had.

* * *

The irony could kill him.

Was it really only three hours ago that he could have called this summer his best? Only three hours ago when he was running freely through the air and fighting a monster his relatives could never dream existed and loving almost every minute of it?

Harry wondered what he might have done to make fortune turn over on him like this.

"Tomorrow is Marge's last day visiting," Uncle Vernon had just said, "so we'll all spend the day together as family."

"So no computer games…just for tomorrow, Dudley dear," Aunt Petunia chirped. Harry had managed to draw some amusement from the gobsmacked expression on his portly cousin's face before his uncle dropped the bomb that ruined his good mood.

"That means you, too, boy."

Harry didn't consider himself part of their family in any way, even through his blood connection to Aunt Petunia. In addition, he most _definitely _was _not_ related to Marge, and so he thought this demand to be rather unfair. However, the look on Vernon's face – the _no nonsense, I am serious_ look – told him that, no, this was not an ugly joke born of the Durselys' non-existent sense of humor, and that he would be staying in all day tomorrow if he wanted that form signed.

"_Harry, grow a spine! If we just leave, what can they do to stop us?_"

Harry busied himself with glaring into his mashed potatoes, barely giving Darksun's suggestion more than a passing thought. Simply walking out and ignoring Uncle Vernon's explicit order was something he couldn't do. The Dursleys had actually been rather civil toward him this summer – if ignoring him as much as possible could be called civil – but he didn't dare test these new boundaries. He had no desire to spend the rest of his break locked up in that room again; the plaster patches in his windowsill were too strong a reminder of that experience for him to willingly risk it. Plus, there was only so much he could do without magic.

"_You could let me take control,_" Darksun offered. _"I'm more experienced than you are; I know fighting moves you wouldn't believe. I could dodge anything he tried; that lump wouldn't lay a finger on us._"

Harry couldn't take Darksun up on that. For one thing, even though he was not related to Vernon and even though he really didn't like the man, striking out against someone who was, technically, family…it just felt wrong. In addition, Harry believed that there were times to fight, and this was not one of them. He could argue with his relatives from time to time – he even felt brave enough to be smart with Uncle Vernon occasionally now – but he didn't think it would be a good idea this time.

"_So you're just going to roll over like a kicked dog?"_

That wasn't it. Not at all.

Remember the permission slip.

"_Fine. Your choice. I'll just be in here…_"

Darksun's presence drifted away from Harry's mind, leaving behind a lingering sensation of disappointment and an odd sense of shame. Harry shook it off quickly; he wasn't going to let his own sword guilt him into fighting when it wasn't necessary. Perhaps Darksun was someone who would battle anything that annoyed him, but Harry wasn't.

The moment dinner was finished, Harry banished himself to his room. Not bothering to turn on the light, even though the only illumination was that of the streetlamp through the window, he crossed over to his desk and opened the top drawer. Just inside was a brown sheet of parchment with elegant script offering a sort of freedom, if he could only obtain one signature from one person.

Harry lifted it out and scanned the words quickly before placing it prominently on top of his desk. He fished out a muggle-style pen from another drawer and laid that alongside the permission form.

All he had to do was survive tomorrow. Just keep his head down, keep his temper under wraps, and keep from doing anything really strange…like talking to Darksun aloud, for example. Then, once Marge was gone, he would have his uncle sign the form and it would be done.

_Simple_, Harry thought, getting ready for bed. _How hard could it possibly be_?

He should have known better.

* * *

The next morning started off badly.

Harry hadn't slept well at all the previous night, so he arose bleary-eyed and with his usually-messy hair in a more chaotic state than normal. He got dressed and rubbed his eyes clear but didn't do much to his hair other than a quick brush-through with his fingers. It was both a sign of resignation and a small rebellion; he would not work to make himself anything near presentable for the Dursleys, even though, at the same time, he knew Marge would take great delight in calling to fault his disheveled appearance. He couldn't win either way.

When Harry headed downstairs, his Aunt by blood immediately roped him into helping her cook breakfast. The Dursleys had mostly left him alone that summer, so it surprised him somewhat when Petunia thrust a fork at him and told him to mind the bacon. Harry soon found that he truly didn't mind much…especially when he realized that the alternative would have been listening to Marge run her mouth in the living room. When compared to that, flipping strips of bacon over in silence with Aunt Petunia became an almost comfortable activity.

Soon enough, however, the meal was ready, and the confrontation was inevitable.

Marge sat down at the table just as Harry left the kitchen with the plate of bacon. Immediately, her sharp little eyes fixed themselves on him. Behind her chair, Ripper growled.

"What were you doing in there?" she demanded. Harry set the plate down and shot her a quick frown – he wouldn't make it a glare, at least, not just yet.

"Helping," he said shortly. At that moment Aunt Petunia, perhaps sensing a disturbance in the household harmony she so loved, rushed from the kitchen rather more quickly than was necessary, a plate of eggs in her hands and an uneasy smile on her face.

"Oh, I simply needed another set of hands, Marge," she said hurriedly, shooing Harry away to sit at his own place – she was probably worried he would do something suspiciously magical if he stood there much longer. "Just to get things done more quickly, you understand…"

"I don't doubt it, Petunia," Marge said, now greedily eyeing the food spread over the tabletop. "Looks magnificent, perfect spread for a growing young boy, eh, Dudley?" This she said with a quick wink as she reached for the teapot. "But are you really sure it's wise to let a boy like _him_ to prepare food? God only knows what he might've done to it…"

Harry rather wished now that he _could_ have done something. If only he could perform magic away from school…and if he knew the right charms…the image of Aunt Marge swallowing a piece of bacon and immediately turning interesting colors flashed through his mind. He waited for Darksun to add his bit to the thought, and was slightly surprised by the silence. Harry frowned down at his plate, searching his mind quickly.

Nothing. Darksun had completely withdrawn and hidden himself deep in Harry's own soul.

Harry shrugged this behavior off for the time being and turned his attention outward again just in time to catch a suggestion – from Marge, of course – that any boy who _would_ help cook a meal was probably suspect of being more feminine than should be allowed, and nothing good could come of something like that.

Harry clenched his teeth and said nothing.

At that point, Aunt Petunia managed to turn the conversation toward her latest observations of the Next-Doorses, so Harry was spared Marge's attentions for the rest of breakfast. Instead of dealing with that source of stress, however, he soon found himself worrying over another: Darksun.

The sword had never been so long out of the back of Harry's head. Almost ever since that day in the Chamber only months ago, he stuck around, offering comments on things and withdrawing only when Harry demanded some privacy. At first, it had been unsettling, like having someone unseen peering over your shoulder at all times. Gradually, however, Harry became accustomed to the feel of the sword in his mind, so much so that if Darksun was silent and motionless for too long that he could forget he was there.

Harry glanced at the clock. It had been twelve hours or so since their disagreement, and the sword hadn't come up to his mind _once_ in all that time.

_Are you sulking?_

There was no answer. Harry didn't know if this meant that Darksun was just ignoring him or if the sword couldn't hear, though he suspected the former. A small wave of irritation washed through him.

_Fine. Like I care_, he thought in a deliberately loud 'voice,' just in case. He then focused all of his attention very firmly on the cup of water he was clutching. Two could play at the silent treatment, and Harry felt too tired and too annoyed to even consider losing.

Things gradually rolled downhill from that point onward. Apparently the Dursleys considered 'family time' to be sitting on the protesting couches and armchairs in the living room and talking.

_As though they didn't do enough of that already_, Harry thought, a bit angrily. He had volunteered to wash the morning dishes as an escape, and had spent as long as possible on them, but eventually even he had to join in. He wound up sitting on the floor with his back to the wall under a window, refusing to participate beyond short answers to direct questions.

His temper was rising, and he felt that if he allowed himself much more voice than that, something might explode. He kept fidgeting, looking at the clock and wondering if time had just slowed down – or worse yet, _gone backwards_ – and being overcome with the strongest urge to just stand up and move, even if only to walk around the room.

Harry had to wonder, briefly, if this was what people meant when they talked about going stir-crazy.

He felt so cooped up that when his pendant began to flash and beep somewhere around mid-morning, Harry couldn't stop himself from jumping instantly to his feet. His sudden movement interrupted Dudley's story about whacking the maths teacher across the shins with his school stick and he froze as every pair of sharp or piggy eyes immediately fixed on him.

"I – I forgot I had to do something," Harry invented on the spot, wondering if he should make a break for it across the room or just sneak around the edge until he reached the stairs. Ripper's growl convinced him to go for the latter; if he ran, that dog would give chase. "S-something for…school."

He saw Uncle Vernon's eyes narrow and Aunt Petunia's widen, and realized that this was probably not his best excuse.

"You know, St. Brutus'," he said quickly to placate them. "Nothing…nothing really important, just –"

"If it's nothing important, boy, then you could probably stay right here with your family," Aunt Marge butted in, as loudly as ever.

Harry's mind worked furiously for a way to salvage the situation. He wished Darksun were speaking to him; the sword might have an idea. Then he remembered that the blade had decided they weren't on good terms at the moment, so he decided against calling out for any help.

"When I said it was nothing important, I meant it was nothing to…worry about. Not like anything bad happened, just some homework, but I just remembered and it has to be done right away, so…"

As he spoke, Harry had been edging around the perimeter of the room. By this time he was roughly even with the stairs. In fact, he was just about to turn and bolt up them when Uncle Vernon's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Ten minutes, boy."

Harry looked over at his uncle. The large man was glaring at him with all the force his eternally-red face could muster.

"You've got ten minutes to take care of whatever's so important. After that, if you don't come back down on your own, I'll come up and get you, mark my words."

Harry thought quickly. If the hollow wasn't too far away, and he sprinted over the rooftops, and it didn't give too much trouble…

"Fifteen," he bargained. The hollow pendant was still blaring; it was starting to stretch his already thin nerves.

"Of all the impudent—" Aunt Marge started, sounding horribly shocked, but she was cut off suddenly by Aunt Petunia.

"Fifteen," she agreed. Marge and Vernon both began to sputter a little.

"Now, Pet, he doesn't need—"

"—only going to _encourage_ this sort of behavior—"

Harry didn't hang around to hear any more; the clock was ticking, and he didn't doubt his Uncle's word. Fifteen minutes to track down a rampaging hollow, exterminate it, and return to his body before anyone downstairs was the wiser.

Once Harry was in his room, he didn't even bother to do more than shut the door before expelling his spirit and leaping from the open window. He spread his senses out, quickly finding the hollow – already here! – and sprinting off in the right direction.

Then, so abruptly he lost concentration and stumbled rapidly in the air as though he had missed a step on a flight of stairs, the hollow in his senses was obliterated. A flash of a different spirit aura appeared near the place where the hollow had been, but then it, too, vanished, leaving Harry standing in midair above the neighbor's rooftop, wondering what had just happened.

He expected Darksun to chime in with an explanation, but the sword was still absent. Harry felt red heat build up in his chest. His brow furrowed.

"_Merlin's beard_," he snarled as nastily as he possibly could before rocketing upwards through the air. Once he deemed himself at a safe enough height and distance from the house, he drew his sword and sliced at air until he felt the frustration in him reach a peak. He then released his aura completely and called out his blade's first form.

"Rise from death's shadow, Dark Sun!"

The energy bled from him into the katana, and Harry began to feel a bit better. This was what he missed…or, at least, this was part of it. It was freedom, being able to run and turn and slice at wind currents. If only Darksun weren't still being sulky…if only his time wasn't limited…then, this could be just about perfect.

He pressed some more energy out, causing the blade to glow red-hot and flicker with tiny tongues of flame. Harry drew quick and intricate patterns in the air, following an instinctive flow of movement that had been impressed upon him by Darksun's frequent lessons. As he progressed, his movements gradually slowed, transforming from jerky, angry thrusts and swipes to a calmer pattern of circular spins and parries. Eventually, Harry turned to a stop, breathing hard. The fire in his sword had gone out long ago, and his aura had burnt down to a faint red shimmer around his form.

Calmly, almost without conscious thought, Harry sealed the katana back into the form of a western longsword and sheathed it at his side. His head felt clear for the first time since he had woken up that morning – no, for the first time since his minor argument with Darksun last night. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, regaining control over his lungs, and then allowed himself to drift downward until he stood on the roof of the Dursley house itself.

This was it. He just had to hold onto this calm. Then everything would be fine. Suddenly, all of Aunt Marge's accusations and digs against him seemed terribly inconsequential. What did Marge matter when it came to him, after all? He knew himself better than she did.

And if Marge was inconsequential, then his behavior with Darksun was downright childish. Harry deliberately opened his mind up to his spirit blade again. He didn't know for certain how to reach Darksun when he was hiding in Harry's soul, nor did he really know what he could say to bridge the small gap that they had dug, but he could at least make sure the doors were open, should the sword decide to come back out.

For the moment, that was all he really could do.

Harry walked across the roof until he was roughly even with his bedroom window, then stepped onto a solid platform of spirit particles in the air, using it to lower himself to the window's level. Upon re-entering his room, he checked his clock; he had a little over five minutes left.

Harry put a hand on his body's shoulder and, with the now-familiar tugging sensation, he found himself sprawled out on the floor. He sat up, adjusted his crooked glasses, and rotated his arms to get used to being back in his own skin again.

"Well, nothing else for it," he mused to himself, standing up at last, "guess it's time to go back down. What a day this is turning out to be…huh, Dark?"

Not really expecting an answer, and not receiving one, Harry left his room to descend back into a sort of hell.

Deep in his soul, the figure of a teenage boy groaned and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

"Yeah," Darksun whispered, keeping his voice below his reaper's hearing, "what a day…"

* * *

Darksun didn't have much practice being honest with himself. It was always so much easier to overlook his own faults and problems in favor of swinging his sword through the nearest outside enemy. It took several nights of his hollow's taunting and a couple of fights in which he nearly lost control before Kurosaki Ichigo admitted to himself that he needed help, and he needed it _badly_. He then treated his friends like pathetic weaklings for weeks, believing he was protecting them by distancing them from fights – he took a long time (and several kicks to the head, courtesy of Rukia) to realize that the real cause of the strain in his friendships was nothing more than their frustration at _his_ over-blown protectiveness, that it was because he was _insulting_ them through his actions. He also experienced a great deal of difficulty in fights simply because he didn't understand how to best use his powers – instead, he just went with a crude hack-and-slash-'til-it-can't-move-anymore technique. In fact, he still hadn't mastered all of his abilities when he chose his new form and received a new name, he was that slow with this particular self-realization.

Now, however, things had changed. Now he had nothing but time and almost no enemies to fight – he didn't even have a proper body to fight in, really. It was, more often than not, dead boring in Harry's inner world. This was why he spent as much time as he could in the level of Harry's conscious mind – it was closer to the outside there, and the outside was at least interesting, even if the kid could be a bit maddening sometimes.

Maddening enough that Darksun almost couldn't stand it anymore. Enough that he sank back into the inner world to sit in the tall, central tree there and wait until Harry either saw reason or simply got through that day any way he wanted to.

Once his frustration cooled and the boredom set in, however, he found himself giving his situation a lot of thought, and he didn't like one thing in particular.

If he was honest – perfectly honest – with himself, Darksun had to admit that he _liked_ the moments in the day when he took control of Harry's body to show him a new fighting move or correct an old one. He _wanted_ to be the one in charge. And that scared him, because he knew what it felt like on both sides of the fence, and he liked to think himself better than that.

Darksun used to be Ichigo, a shinigami, the king. He was accustomed to controlling his own body, and his instinct and memory told him to never let go of that control and to wrest it back if it was ever lost. At the same time, he was very aware of how terrifying it was when the horse suddenly bucked and ran off in another direction. He knew that only one person could rule a form and he felt that this was brought with an inborn _right_ to rule. He knew that this body _was not his_.

Darksun used to be nameless, a hollow, the horse. He knew well the frustration of an incompetent or inexperienced king, and he hungered for the control he had always been denied – was _still_ being denied. The strongest should rule, or all would die. Protection is meaningless if the protector is too weak to be effective, to make a difference. Surely he didn't sacrifice what he used to be – his friends, his family – just to become someone else's _tool_?

The orange-haired sword drove his head backward into the wood and squeezed his eyes shut. He almost wished that these two sides of himself were still separate – despite all the issues that sort of situation caused before, it was easier to fight a physical being to decide who was right than it was to argue a moral question with nothing but his own indecisive mind.

For an instant, he almost called out to Zangetsu…but no, he was gone now. Instead, _Darksun_ was the one who was supposed to give advice and aid, to guide someone with all the wisdom he had – _heh._ _Yeah, right._

Before all of this, back in the antechamber of the Soul King's palace, Kurosaki Ichigo had been absolutely certain of the choice he made. He knew the consequences – mentally, at least – and he was fully prepared – so he thought – to face them, if it only meant that the threat Aizen presented to the world would be destroyed. Now, however, the heat of the battle had long since dissipated, and it was easy to forget just how much had ridden upon his quick decision – his own life least of all – and focus instead on the consequences now made real.

He was a sword, bound to a shinigami. He was supposed to _help_ that shinigami, aid him reliably, be trustworthy. He wasn't supposed to usurp the shinigami's authority. He wasn't supposed to claim any thrones here, even if he wished he could.

He wasn't supposed to wish it. He didn't _want_ to wish it.

Wearily, the spirit blade opened his eyes and stared upward at the canopy of green leaves overhead. They danced madly in the stiff breeze that had sprung up from Harry's stress and frustration.

Harry. His student, of a sort. His shinigami – in this language, soul reaper. His _master_.

"What the hell," Darksun murmured to himself, "did I get myself into?"

* * *

Harry himself wasn't quite sure how he'd done it.

He had returned from his room, calm, in control. Marge wanted to know what his project was; he said it wasn't anything too important, and Uncle Vernon (who had turned on the television while Harry was upstairs, it seemed) broke in then to talk about that wild felon that had escaped, and have you seen the state of his _hair_?

From then on, the adult Dursleys were rather too occupied with the news and gossip to pay him very much mind (despite Petunia's orders, Dudley had vanished to his computer games – this, however, was tolerated). Harry simply kept his distance from Ripper (who also had fallen to ignoring him in favor of some leftover bacon from this morning – Aunt Petunia looked _pained_ to see the dog slobbering across her clean carpet) and either didn't bother answering Aunt Marge's occasional insults or gave noncommittal replies. He didn't quite manage to hold on to the calm he had attained, but he wasn't quite as antsy as he had been, either, so all in all, Harry considered the afternoon a victory of sorts.

Then Dudley – who was collected from upstairs – Vernon, and Marge all left to go shopping one last time, leaving Petunia behind to get started on supper, along with Harry to 'lend a helping hand.'

Once again, he didn't mind peeling potatoes. Much.

"You'll keep civil tonight, then?" Aunt Petunia asked – demanded – without any prelude. Harry looked up with a small frown.

"I thought I already was," he protested.

"I'll have no nonsense," his aunt continued as though she hadn't heard him, "no argument, no smart talk, and if my meringue pie should lift so much as a _centimeter_ from the tabletop—"

Her voice had gotten strangely high-pitched and tremulous toward the end. Harry supposed that admitting, even that much, the presence of his magic was difficult for her, to say the least.

"I'll try," he said, perhaps a little sullenly. "It's not like I _mean_ for these things to happen..."

"In that case, you'll mean for them _not_ to happen."

Harry took a moment to work the sentence out. In the end, all he could say was, again, "I'll try. Promise."

His aunt huffed, but she didn't pursue the conversation. After a few more long minutes, Harry glanced up to see her frowning at him. They made eye contact, and she blinked.

"You're doing those wrong," she snapped suddenly. Harry drew his head back slightly in surprise and looked down at the potato he held in his hand. It looked fine to him – only half-peeled, but fine.

"Put that knife down and get out of here – I could do much better by myself," his aunt ordered quickly, turning around and slicing at vegetables with a bit more vigor than was necessary. Harry complied, happy to be out of the menial chore, but a little uncertain about what had brought this sudden change about.

"They'll be back in a little while," she said suddenly, without turning around. Harry, who had reached the kitchen doorway, stopped and looked back. "I'll tell them you've gone off on your own again – you just make sure that you're back in an hour…and that you've taken care of that attitude of yours. Understand?"

Harry didn't, but he wasn't going to argue about it, either.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he said, and then he practically ran to the front door. Once outside, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. The summer air was good, especially when he could inhale it away from the constant stingy stench of disinfectant and air fresheners that filled the Dursley house.

He grinned and headed off toward the park out of habit, his hands jammed into the pockets of too-big jeans and his shoulders relaxed. He let his mind wander, trusting his feet to take him where he wanted to go. As such, he didn't notice a shadow in an alley halfway to the park suddenly change shape and lean forward to watch him go by. Harry's eyes were fixed on nothing – they missed the man in the shadows. The man's eyes were fixed on Harry – they missed the sudden twitch of living room curtains across the way. The person behind the twitchy curtains – a neighborhood busybody who could almost rival Petunia Dursley – missed very little, and had the hotline number memorized to boot.

By the time the busybody returned from the phone to her window, the street was quiet and empty again. Harry had continued walking, headed for the park; the man, though she could not have known it, had withdrawn to the shadows and transformed into a large, black dog, both vaguely regretting and relishing the risk he had taken in seeing his godson with his own human eyes for the first time in years.

As for those on the other side of the hotline, they had already sent out a message to a team of hit wizards. An advance guard of two dementors, magically bound by orders not to harm any human but to apprehend Black by any means, was already on its way.

When the dementors arrived, however, they could find no trace of Black. There was, however, something of even greater interest to them: a powerful soul, stronger and richer than most, with dark memories…and inside of it, _somehow_, something darker and richer still. It was shaped like a human, but it didn't feel like it, and if it didn't feel like it, then it wasn't, and if it wasn't…

The dementors found a loophole in their magical orders and, abandoning the search for Black as useless since he obviously wasn't here anyhow, they rushed forward.

Harry, due to both his magical ability and his spiritual powers, felt the cold before anyone else could have. And while the muggles simply closed their windows against the sudden cool wind and went on with their evenings, Harry knew there was something else beneath the freezing he sensed, something like an empty echo. He stopped in his tracks and looked up, frowning and fingering the pendant uncertainly.

_Dark, come up here. I don't know what this is, but I think we have a pro—_

The spiritual energy hit him like a sack of bricks – no, an entire _blizzard_ dumped on him at once – doubling him over before he could summon enough of his own energy to repel it. Then, before Harry could do much more than stand up straight again, there came the fear.

Shaking uncontrollably, with his vision fading into black and back again, Harry was hardly aware of falling to his knees. Far-away voices trembled in his mind, mixing with and slipping around the echoing tones of his sword.

"_Run! It's him—"_

"_Harry? Harry! What's happening out there? Answer me!"_

"_No, not Harry, not Harry, please—"_

"_Oi, what's wrong?!"_

"_Step aside…step aside, foolish girl!"_

"_Harry, hold on!"_

The voices lifted slightly, and the fear with them, just enough that Harry could sense Darksun in the back of his head again. He could also sense the fear running off of the blade, and it startled him until he realized that the sword had shouldered some of…whatever this was.

Their consciences connected, and in a flash faster than thought, Harry thought he could hear a child's voice crying out syllables he didn't recognize as English: _Kaa-chan! Kaa-chan!_

Harry could see two dark figures approaching, flying over the ground like a pair of disembodied cloaks. He reached for the pendant, but his hand felt heavy and he was breathing harder than he should have been. The world tilted, and he felt the ground strike his side – or perhaps it was the other way around?

Then the nightmares were nearly upon him. Harry felt his eyes close, though he didn't know if he'd willed them to or not.

Suddenly he heard a snarl, a yelp and a rattling breath being suddenly drawn in. This was quickly followed by a human yell, the sound of steel ringing against sheath, and a heavy, tearing thud. The cold pressure lessened, and Harry slowly forced his eyes open.

The cloaked things were gone – driven off or dead, he didn't know – and standing above him were a huge black dog, trembling uncontrollably and looking around in a sort of confusion, and a dark-coated man with a sword in his hand.

The man sheathed his sword and looked down. He was breathing hard and his face was pale, but he managed a small smile as he extended his hand toward Harry. The dog watched with its hackles raised, eyes flicking all around the man's form as though it knew something was there but couldn't quite see it.

"Good to meet you, Harry," he said kindly, "I'm Richard Davies. Dumbledore sent me."

Black spots were appearing in Harry's vision, he was shaking uncontrollably, and the world was spinning, but he still managed to move enough to be instinctively polite.

"Harry Potter," he murmured, "nice to—"

Before he was aware of anything else, he fell backwards into darkness.

* * *

**To be continued…**

* * *

A/N: Short, possibly important notice. First, I would like to thank those who informed me of Darksun's name in Japanese – I may make use of it later, and even if I don't, it's a nice thing to know – but I would like to note here that since this takes place in England, everything will be in English. I doubt that cross-cultural zanpakuto (under the system I'm using at any rate) are _extremely_ rare, and in any event it would just be awkward to expect a reaper in one country/culture/language to call out a release phrase and name (especially a long one) in another language he doesn't even know. Can you imagine the mispronunciations which would result?

Besides, I already made Zangetsu formerly Russian, yet his name was always in Japanese, so…

This translation of terms extends to technical stuff as well. For example, the English soul reapers do not refer to spirit pressure as 'reiatsu,' but rather as an 'aura' or even simply 'energy.' I've tried to keep these translations simple and straightforward to avoid or reduce confusion, but if you have a question, don't hesitate to drop a review and ask. I will answer as best I can.

If I slip up and have an English reaper or the narrative in Harry's POV use a Japanese term, I apologize. It's a hard habit to avoid.

Last note: about the OCs. I'm sorry. I don't really like using them too much in fanfiction, but they become necessary when you want to move something in a totally new direction, and this is a VERY new direction. The English Soul Society is populated with actual people, after all, and this requires invention. I will keep them from stealing the spotlight, though, I promise that.

Again, if you have questions, go ahead and ask. I'll probably answer at great length, especially since some of them can force me to really hammer out concepts I have in a clear manner. If you have concerns or are curious about something, feel free to mention it; some of you were really worried about the horcrux last chapter and whether it would be like an inner hollow for Harry. For those who thought this but didn't review or mention it, the answer is no. The horcrux will be a problem, yes, but not an inner-hollow-type problem.

Many thanks to those who have added this story to their alerts or favorites list, and many more to those who took the time to type out a few words for me. I love hearing from you all.


	4. Chapter 4

For once, the air was calm. Nothing disturbed the leaves on the tall tree in the center of the grassy plain, and the grass itself was equally still. Everything was perfectly at peace.

"_Flare!_"

Three long, straight lines of fire shot forward from thin air and impacted the dry grass in an uneven triangle. The flames crackled there for a moment before quickly dying away into nothing.

Darksun dropped the katana in his hand, letting it vanish, and stalked forward to prod the grass with one sandaled foot. It bent under the pressure before springing back in a manner more befitting green stalks than brown ones. There was no sign of burning on any of it – it was as though the fire had not really existed.

The spirit blade made a discontented sound in the back of his throat, summoned the katana again, and wordlessly drove it into the ground at his feet. A tall column of fire burst up around him, roaring into the blue sky and taking some of his frustration, anger, and fear with it.

It wasn't as though he _wanted_ to destroy anything in this inner world, Darksun reflected as the fire died away again, leaving unmarked brown grass in its wake. It was just that the discovery that there was something his fire couldn't harm – aside from himself, of course – was…mildly frustrating. It certainly wasn't _helping_ his current mood, at any rate.

What were those things? And how did they summon memories of…?

He growled and flames suddenly consumed the katana's blade. Darksun swept the sword through the air viciously, watching the fire trailing in its wake and imagining those black-cloaked _things_ burning in it. He let all of his aggression, all of his anger, rise in the form of a ragged black aura and he struck out at the world with it, simultaneously relieved that he caused no real damage and irked by that same fact.

Darksun had to burn, just for a little while longer. As he was now – alone – the fire was the only way to keep himself from drowning in the rain.

He was glad Harry was still unconscious, and that he hadn't yet worked out how to descend into his own inner world at will. His wielder was too inquisitive for his own good – if he saw Darksun like this, he would immediately demand to know what was wrong, thinking there was a way he could fix it. And Darksun wasn't ready to tell him about that. He hadn't even told Harry flat-out that he had a past beyond being a spirit blade…not yet. He might never have to, either. Zangetsu had certainly managed…well, for the one year he had known him, at any rate.

Feeling that this, at least, was safe enough ground for thought, Darksun released the sword which was his physical incarnation and wandered back over to the tall tree in the center of the world. The fire around him subsided into mere flickers that ran across the surface of his skin and clothing.

Zangetsu. How had he _done_ it? He had cared for Ichigo, yet he kept his distance until he was truly, deeply, desperately needed, and then he had set tasks and tests with the perfect ease of a born mentor. He had been so _restrained_…was that how a zanpakuto, a spirit blade, is supposed to act?

Darksun felt like he was fumbling with Harry's training constantly. He had barely known where to start with the martial arts, not having taken any formal classes in years and therefore uncertain of their usual structure and the normal speed of advancement. He supposed he was lucky Harry hadn't pulled any muscles or sprained anything. On top of that, the little games he had Harry play with the hollows had been thought up on the spur of the moment. Darksun had no master plan behind the random tactics he had Harry use, only the thought that maybe, in some way, the switching up might force Harry to become a stronger, more well-rounded fighter than he might otherwise. He was controlling Harry's progress with his first release's special attacks by giving them one at a time, but he wasn't really sure if he wanted to go on to the next because he was impatient or because Harry had actually mastered – or come close enough to it – the current technique.

The truth was, Darksun realized – still a little uncomfortable with all of this self-honesty – the truth was that he simply wasn't ready for this.

Kurosaki Ichigo had barely been sixteen when he became Dark Sun and died in the King's Realm. He hadn't even graduated from _high school_. He was never a tutor or a mentor figure of any kind to any person. Any studying he did was either solitary or with Rukia, and he didn't consider those sessions to have anything to do with teaching as she would typically end up either stealing his homework to copy or driving him up a wall before finally 'understanding' the concept in a manner that told him she'd understood all along and had just been messing with his head.

And then, of course, there was the question of his hunger for control. How far could he go before it became dangerous to Harry, and could he possibly keep himself within those limits?

Always, always Kurosaki Ichigo's greatest and most difficult enemy had been himself. Those battles were the ones he was never sure of winning. A new name and a changed spiritual signature didn't change that fact one bit, and he knew it.

Darksun sprawled out on the ground beneath the tree, ignoring the prick of dry grass across his back and neck as he stared up into the still branches and green leaves above him. After a long moment of doing nothing but stare, he groaned and scrubbed both hands across his face.

"This is bad," he said to himself, a habit he'd begun to pick up in the solitude of Harry's inner mind.

Zangetsu had never resorted to talking to himself. Zangetsu had always been at peace. Ichigo didn't know this; Ichigo, of course, wasn't around when Zangetsu was most alone and most silent. The nameless hollow was, however, and it was this side of his memories and personality that supplied this knowledge, along with a vague curiosity – is it possible for a sword to go mad?

"Only if the sword used to be half-hollow, I expect," Darksun said drily. Once, when he was two parts of a soul, the question would have been spoken with a mocking, laughing undertone, and it would have been answered with a surge of anger, fear, a snarled _shut up_. Now, however, the question was fully his own, and therefore it was nothing to be afraid of.

Afraid of. Fear. The memory that the dark-cloaked things had dredged up to the surface flashed across his mind again, a confused jumble of rain and blood and tears. Darksun flinched, screwed his eyes shut, and gripped the sides of his head.

_Not Harry, please not Harry!_

_Ichigo – stop!_

He understood exactly why his wielder had collapsed upon _their_ approach. He, too, had memories of a mother who died to protect him. That sort of thought was enough to drive the strongest of men to their knees.

_Please, take me, kill me instead!_

_Mommy? Mommy, get up – get up!_

Darksun could _feel_ the memory dragging him downwards, filling his core up with heavy water. With an enraged, desperate shout, he turned himself over to his hands and knees and forced the fire to roar to life again. He wrenched his mind toward hating the things that caused this and found once again that the fear and sadness dissipated under anger's blaze…no, that wasn't right; they fueled it. His scowl intensified. He needed something to fight, but nothing was there to absorb his aggression. Darksun drew a flaming fist back and struck the ground so hard that his arm disappeared into solid earth up to his elbow.

This was the only way he now had to cope, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind. He withdrew his arm and watched as dirt slowly reappeared to fill in the hole he had just made. Keeping up a bad attitude, a scowl and clenched fists, at least distracted him from the hurt. Someday, perhaps someday, he would find another way to deal with all that rain by himself.

Now, though, all the Dark Sun could do was burn until the skies cleared again.

* * *

When Harry awoke, it was abruptly. It felt as though he had merely blinked and gone from the quiet neighborhood street to his current location – a small, white-walled room with a window set in one wall and a door in the opposite – in the mere instant his eyes had been closed.

Harry put a hand to his forehead and sat up to look around. Everything was blurry; someone had removed his glasses. The young wizard peered hard at his immediate surroundings and soon found a large, dark, blocky blur which was almost certainly a nightstand. He groped across its surface, half-blind, until his fingers connected with thin metal and smooth glass. Scooping up his glasses, he put them on and took a proper look at his new surroundings.

There wasn't much to see that he hadn't already managed to sort out without the aid of glasses, really. Four white-painted walls, unadorned by any pictures or personal touches, surrounded him. The floor was made of wood, as was the simple door to his left and the window frame to the right. The light streaming through the glass was bright; mid-morning, or perhaps afternoon. The only pieces of furniture in the room were the stiff bed he was now sitting on, the wooden nightstand beside it, and a chair in the corner to the left of the window, upon which lay what appeared to be a folded up bundle of black cloth, a pair of shoes, a belt, and a sheathed sword.

Struck by the familiar appearance of that blade, Harry quickly looked down at himself. He was, once again, wearing the comfortable grey shirt and pants of his reaper uniform, though the coat, belt, and shoes had been removed.

_What is going on?_

Harry shoved the white sheets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He felt a little weak, and he wobbled somewhat when he stood up and walked over to the chair, but it wasn't as though he was about to collapse. He gathered up the last pieces of his attire and dressed in them quickly, though it took a moment to figure out just how to buckle the sheath to his belt – he had never needed to do so himself before, as it had always simply come fully assembled whenever he took on his spirit form. Once dressed, Harry moved to the window and peered out, laying a hand on the comforting hilt at his side. It felt warm, perhaps from the sunlight hitting it.

There was nothing of note outside, Harry thought. No road signs, nothing announcing the name of the place he was now staying, not even any people walking by. Just some flowers and shrubs, then a wide, dusty road. Beyond the road itself he could only see a broad field interrupted occasionally by dark clumps of trees, though there were some buildings further off – short and squat, probably residential houses rather than the sorts of things you might find in a city such as London. Wherever he was, it wasn't thickly populated.

The door behind him opened, and Harry turned to see a short, middle-aged woman wearing a light blue dress with a white apron over it enter. She had a tray of food in one arm, and she was looking right at Harry – no, he remembered suddenly, he was invisible in this form. She was looking at the window. He edged to the side in polite, subconscious reflex to give her room to look, and was shocked when her eyes followed him.

"And what, may I ask, are ye doing out of bed?"

"Huh – wha – you can _see_ me?"

"'Course I can. Did ye knock your head or something? I didn't see anything when ye were brought in, but I could've missed…"

As she spoke, the stranger set the tray down on the nightstand and advanced on Harry, grasping hold of his head and prodding carefully around it. Harry ducked away the first chance he got, retreating to the bedside and casting a quick glance at the door, wondering again what was happening, where he was, and whether he should be working on an escape or not.

"You're as twitchy as a bird. Calm down, boy; my job is to _heal _ye, not hurt ye. Not that there's much we can actually do for people who run across those half-hollow demons but provide a place to sleep and some food."

"Demons – is that what those were?" Harry asked, his curiosity growing as the faint sense of alarm waned. His earlier reaction to the woman now seemed ridiculous, and he felt fairly embarrassed over it.

The woman scoffed and bustled around the bed, her actions reminding Harry suddenly of Mrs. Weasley. Strengthening that connection, she shoved Harry back onto the mattress and nudged the tray toward him.

"Eat up," she said, "and then we'll see about letting ye out of here. No, they're not demons, but I figure they're as close as ye can get without going to hell yourself. They're called dementors, actually."

Harry's mouth was full of toast when something in her explanation struck him. He chewed and swallowed quickly.

"Wait…hell exists?"

The woman looked surprised.

"Well, yes, of course it does! Honestly, what are they teaching ye these days? Certainly not common sense. Ye were right lucky the Asterope chief was there, else there wouldn't be anything left of ye. Dementors are tough opponents to fight for even the most seasoned reaper – takes a strong willpower to even lift a sword against one. Certainly nothing a trainee could survive alone. Might want to give that coat back to whoever lent it to ye, too – we all know students aren't supposed to wear the black until they've also got a color."

"Er…right," Harry said, his mind working quickly to put everything together. This 'Asterope chief,' whatever that was, had to be the reaper who saved him – what was his name? Davids? – from the black-cloaked things – dementors – but that still left some questions…such as just why he was getting the impression that this woman thought he was a soul-reaper student, and just where he actually was that she could not only see him, but also treat the idea of reapers as something perfectly logical.

Before he could ask anything more, however, the woman headed for the door.

"Just finish that and rest up a bit more, and I'll call someone out to take ye back, all right?"

And then the door clicked shut, and Harry was alone again. He ate quickly, only just realizing how hungry he actually was, and set his tray on the nightstand again, seeing nowhere else to put it.

…_Hey, Dark?_

For what felt like a long time, there was no reply. Then, slowly, he felt the sword's familiar presence appear in the back of his mind. Darksun felt warmer than usual, just as his hilt had, a little like someone who had been sitting under the sun or near a fire for a long time.

"_Are you all right?"_

The question threw Harry off slightly.

_I'm fine_, he answered, half in reflex. It was true, though; with a full stomach and a busy mind, any lingering effect the dementors could have left was gone. At worst, Harry had only the memory of the cold and fear, and mere memory could never be as bad as the real thing.

_And you?_

The sword seemed hesitant to answer.

"…_I've…been better. But it's not as bad as it was earlier, so, yeah, I'm fine too."_

_You took some of that…that aura, whatever they did…you took it off of my mind and into your own, didn't you?_

Darksun didn't answer. He didn't need to.

_Thanks, Dark._

"_Don't mention it. Protecting people isn't anything special."_

Harry disagreed. Had he been in a similar position, he couldn't be sure that he would have done the same thing. He would like to think himself brave enough, but…

"_Listen, Harry. I've always been a protector – a guardian, sort of. I'm meshed with you, part of you. I don't think that's possible unless we're really similar, at least deep down inside. So if the core of my being is 'One Protector,' yours must be something like that as well. That means that you're definitely brave enough. You have to be. And if you aren't, I'll teach you to control your fear. Fear is nothing to us. It has its place, but not on the battlefield, and not when there's someone to protect. All right?"_

"What happens when you don't have a person to protect?" Harry asked aloud, picking at a fold in the bedsheets. "What happens when you're alone?"

"_Just because nobody's standing behind you doesn't mean you aren't fighting for them."_

At that moment, Harry felt the slight tickle of an approaching aura. At first he thought it was far distant, then, to his surprise, someone knocked on the door and it swung open to reveal the faint energy's source.

It was a fairly average-looking young woman with a thin face and short blond hair. She was wearing something similar to Harry, save that her shirt was royal blue, her coat mostly open, and her blade was a short sword belted over her right shoulder. On that same shoulder, her black coat bore a white insignia: the outline of a six-pointed star over the number _VI_. She stood straight, as though trying to stretch herself taller than her actual height, which was probably somewhere around five feet or so.

The young woman looked at Harry with something like nervous apprehension, though she did manage a smile and held her hand out for him to shake.

"Alyssa Longstaff," she introduced herself, "deputy of Asterope Squad. You're the junior reaper, I suppose?"

Harry stood up, took her hand, and shook it. He stood a head or so shorter than her, so he had to look up somewhat to meet her eyes, but it was still better than what he remembered from his first meeting with Darksun.

"Harry Potter. I guess I might be a junior reaper…I don't really know. Nobody's explained what's going on."

"I can do that…well, some of it, at any rate," Longstaff replied, releasing his hand and stepping aside to gesture at the open door. "We'll have to talk as we go, though – I need to get back to work soon."

Hesitantly, Harry walked out of the door into a wide, wood-paneled hallway. The entire length of it was lit with old-fashioned lamps set high on the walls. Instead of little flames in the glass bulbs, however, small balls of white light floated inside. Harry glanced at them, still fascinated by any new sort of magic he came across.

Longstaff closed the door and walked away down the hall.

"This way," she called softly over her shoulder, and Harry followed, trying hard to place his feet as quietly as he could. This place had the same effect as a library: you couldn't help but muffle everything you did or said here.

They passed numerous more doors, each one marked only by a number painted in black on the wood. Harry noticed that the numbers were rapidly decreasing as they walked; they had started somewhere in the forties, and now were just striding by number twenty-nine on the right and twenty-eight on the left. Longstaff led him confidently through twisting, branching hallways, and Harry could only guess that she was either very familiar with the route or that she was using the numbers to find her way; everything looked the same to him.

Then, abruptly, they rounded another sharp corner and the hallway ended in a wide, bright room well-lit by tall windows. A large fireplace stood to one end, cold and dark at the moment but with enough room inside for a truly magnificent blaze, surrounded by thick rugs and comfortable chairs. The other end of the room sported double doors propped open by large, smooth stones. Harry could vaguely see wooden tables and benches inside and thought it might be something like a cafeteria.

And then, directly ahead, another double set of doors, though these remained closed and were a bit larger than the first set. It was to these that Longstaff strode, with Harry hurrying to keep up with her quick movements. The woman pushed one of the two doors open, and only moments later, they were outside.

Harry took a deep breath and looked around. The day seemed quite nice, fresh and warm, with puffy clouds drifting across a bright blue sky. The path leading up to the doors was dirt, as the road Harry saw through his window had been, and it curved away out of sight beyond the grassy lawn that bordered the front of the building, disappearing into a rather small stand of trees.

The wizard noticed all of this in only a couple of seconds, because he was only given a couple of seconds to observe it. The next thing Harry saw was a black blur charging forward, leaping, and knocking him to the ground with a fantastic bark. Instinctively, Harry put up his hands and shoved at the dog's face to keep its teeth away, but it ducked around and, before Harry had really grasped what was happening, swiped a slobbery tongue across his cheek, nose, and one lens of his glasses.

Apparently satisfied, the dog suddenly backed away, wearing an expression that could only be the happiest grin possible and wagging its tail so hard that its entire body wiggled with the effort.

"You have an extremely loyal dog," Longstaff commented. Harry sat up and wiped his face and glasses dry, giving the aforementioned creature a confused look. He couldn't be completely sure, but he thought it was the same dog as the one which helped drive off the dementors that attacked him – was it the night before? Or longer? All the same, familiar or not, Harry was certain he'd never seen the dog before that night in his life.

"He's not mine," he said, standing up and brushing himself off. As though to counter his words, the dog rushed forward and pressed its entire wiggling body up against his legs. Harry barely kept his balance; even though he could clearly see the creature's ribs through its pelt it was strong, not to mention big enough to still be fairly heavy.

"Looks like he disagrees with you," Longstaff replied, turning away and motioning for Harry to follow. "Wherever he came from, that dog's yours now. It's hard to argue with the kind of loyalty that would lead a creature through the Archway."

"Archway?"

"The gate, of sorts, between Earth and this world, which is typically called the afterlife. Soul Society, if you want the universally-accepted name. Did you know that the healers here had to throw that dog out five times last night? He kept getting in to find you. The Head of this hospital – Smith – gave me an earful about it before I could escape to pick you up."

"Er…that's nice?"

"They were about ready to call in a barrier specialist from the squads to keep him in one place, too."

Harry felt a little awkward. Longstaff's almost rambling conversation had the air of someone who was talking just to keep uncomfortable silences at bay, and he wasn't so sure he liked that very much. In addition, he wanted a bit more information, and not about how these 'healers' complained about the dog trotting at his side.

"So, wait, where are we again?"

"Right now? Soul Society. Specifically, we're in the Ring, which is the area just outside of the reaper headquarters, or the Center – which is where we're going right now."

"You said something about…the afterlife. Does that mean I'm—"

"Oh, no," Longstaff replied, her tone light. "Don't worry. The technique isn't used very often, of course, but there's a particular way to key into the Archway which can allow a physical form to take on a spiritual one when it passes through one way and reverses the process going the other. So you, and that dog, are made up of spirit bits right now, but you'll go back to normal once you make a return trip."

"Oh."

Harry thought this was very fortunate. Soul reaper or not, he wasn't necessarily ready to just up and die permanently, leaving all of his friends behind.

"Right. If you've got questions, go ahead and ask. I don't really know where to start explaining things or what you want to have explained, so…"

Harry nodded and looked around to give himself time to consider all the questions he had and choose the ones that pressed most on his curiosity.

At that time, the two of them were passing through what seemed to be a rather loosely-connected neighborhood of rough-looking houses. Unlike the modern, clean-cut, identical sort of homes that Harry was familiar with, the houses here looked a little thicker, a bit more stout and squat. Their corners weren't always crisp, and a couple of the wood-shingled roofs looked like they were set at a slight slant, but despite this, Harry thought they looked rather sturdy.

The people around them seemed pretty sturdy as well, really. They were of all ages, from a small child making pictures in the dirt with a short stick to an elderly woman who sat in the shade of a rough awning watching over the little boy. For the most part, they seemed to ignore Longstaff and Harry, though a few offered polite nods as they passed.

"Something that nurse said confused me a bit," Harry reflected eventually. The dog at his side was making it somewhat difficult to walk, as it insisted on trotting so close that Harry's right leg brushed its side with every step. "She seemed to think I was some sort of student, and there was something about returning this coat to someone."

"Not many people know about you yet," Longstaff replied with a small shrug. "I mean, know about you being a living reaper. That's why she was confused – only the trainees wear grey shirts, and they don't get to wear the black coat until they join a squad. That's all."

"I guess that makes sense."

The dusty road they had been following had slowly widened, running from what Harry thought might have been a one-lane road to something like two and a half lanes or so. The houses bordering it dwindled as they went on, as did the number of people around. Up ahead, Harry could make out a tall stone wall with an open, arched doorway in it. Before the wall was a moat, with a drawbridge spanning it before the archway, and rising behind that wall was an impressive group of buildings which looked something like a castle broken into individual fragments, each with its own tower; Harry counted seven of them around a short, round central structure. All of it was made of a brownish-grey stone, and while the blocky, narrow-windowed structures lacked the awe-inspiring, graceful majesty of Hogwarts, Harry still felt a surge of amazement.

Darksun seemed to agree.

"_Not much to look at, but it could probably take just about _anything_ you throw at it."_

Without thinking about it, Harry's slowed his walk to a near-halt. Longstaff stopped to allow him to take the view in properly.

"Headquarters," she said with a touch of pride in her voice. "Come on, then."

Feeling a little small, even with the big black dog at his side, Harry crossed the drawbridge and, for the first time, entered the Center.

* * *

The Center, or the soul reaper headquarters, was shaped perhaps a little oddly when compared to traditional, Earthly castles. Instead of the outer wall taking on a predictable shape, such as a rectangle or a circle, it was built in the form of a septagon, with a gate in the center of each segment. The main paths that ran to each gate continued onward inside, arrow-straight, until they reached a round building too short and too wide to be a proper tower, though it sported the conical roof that one might expect on one.

Inside this rounded building, the governing council of the English Soul Society lived and worked. At that very moment, the council sat around a wide, circular table in the building's fourth floor – which comprised of only that one room, as it was actually situated just inside the cone roof – and discussed business: the question of how to handle their more-uneasy-than-usual relations with the Welsh Soul Society, when they should meet with the Healers Coalition and the Construction Guild concerning the possible expansion of the western Ring and whether a small clinic should be established there, and, of course, the appearance of something that had not been seen in nearly three hundred years: a living reaper.

When the council reached this last order of business, there was a general shuffling as everyone shifted their seats closer around the table, opening space along one portion of the curve for seven new chairs to be drawn up. The door at the far end of the well-lit room opened, and seven very diverse individuals entered to take their places. These were the chiefs of the squads, and they were to be included in the discussion as, technically, Harry Potter was a reaper, and so it was just as much their business as the governing council's.

"All are accounted for?"

It was a pointless question. Roll had already been called for the council, and anyone could see that the seven chiefs were present. Nontheless, it was the usual question, and anything usual was comfortable; it wasn't terribly often that the chiefs all participated in the council's meetings.

"All are accounted for," answered a man wearing a black reaper's coat over a white shirt. Unlike the seven, he had already been seated at council.

"Commander Murgatroyd, would you care to start?"

The man in white stood up. A bright star stretched across the entire back of his black coat, and unlike the other reapers, there was no roman numeral on his shoulder. Though relatively small in stature, with a deeply wrinkled face and wispy white hair, Murgatroyd stood straight and spoke with clear composure.

"We are here to discuss the living reaper, name Harry Potter, wizard, thirteen years old, and his unusual situation on earth and what our response and relation to him should be. Just over a month ago, we received word from our sole living contact and ally, Albus Dumbledore, concerning the full awakening of the child's powers. Dumbledore requested a trusted friend of his be sent to keep watch over Potter at a distance. The reaper who received the task was Chief Davies. As he has a better grasp on the situation than I, being present for much of it and speaking directly to Dumbledore at least once, he shall explain the rest."

Murgatroyd sat down. The chamber remained mostly silent; most of what had just been said was old news, and easily understood. Davies' part in the tale, however, was sure to be something new and quite probably something interesting. A few leaned forward as the brown-haired man rose to speak. Clasping his hands, he gazed steadily forward and spoke at a fast clip.

"I began observing Harry Potter mid-June. He seemed to have gained some understanding of his reaper abilities, and worked on training himself to fight both with his sword and without it. Near the beginning of July he seemed to have worked out how to send souls on, and just a week later he fought a hollow for the first time, tracking it down deliberately. He has already attained his sword's initial form.

"Near the end of July, a living criminal wizard by the name of Sirius Black escaped their prison. Albus Dumbledore warned me then that this man apparently has a connection to Harry's parents and that he is a murderer on the side of their greatest enemy. He wished for us to take Harry then, as he felt Soul Society would provide a greater safeguard against any attack Black might make than anything on Earth. The case was denied, of course.

"Just yesterday, however, a different threat appeared, and I took the initiative of bringing Harry here without direct orders. He was attacked by a pair of dementors who were probably searching the area for Black."

At the word 'dementors,' a shudder ran around the table. Everyone present had at least heard stories of the monsters, and several had lost friends to them. A few had even felt their effects and lived to refuse to tell the tale. It was well-known that the creatures were a great threat and that they regarded any soul enriched by life in the Soul Society a rare treat, and reapers an absolute delicacy.

"A stray dog that had taken a strong liking to Harry attacked them, which distracted the pair enough for me to finish them off. I brought the boy here, and the dog followed. Now I petition for the boy to be given the right to stay here until the last day of August, a little less than a month now. That is all."

Shaking slightly, whether from the still-fresh memory of the dementors or from the effort of public speech, Davies sank back into his seat and reached for a cup of water. Murgatroyd rose slightly.

"Are we ready to open for discussion?"

A murmur of assent ran around the room. Eventually, a female council member spoke up, not bothering to stand.

"I see no problem with his staying at least that long. Though he is living, he is also, technically, a reaper. You cannot say with absolute truth that he does not belong here at all."

"He _should not_ belong here," one of the reaper chiefs insisted. The balding man leaned forward in his chair in emphasis, light sliding across the numeral _I_ on his shoulder. "He is only thirteen – still a child! Death should have no place for him. We should let him live his life."

"But he's made death part of his life, Cannon, there's no denying that," replied another reaper, a woman who bore the number _II_.

"I agree," said a council member across the room. "Chief Davies reported the boy fighting hollows and sending on souls. He's taken an active role as a reaper. It would be wrong of us to deny him any support."

"Not so," another reaper replied vehemently. "The worlds of living and dead are not meant to cross this way. We are not allowed to attempt living second lives on Earth – why should this boy be allowed a double life? It should be either one or the other."

"Are you suggesting we either seal his powers or kill him, Chief Tate?"

"Exactly. I would be willing to let him choose, of course, but it must be done."

"Preposterous. There is no call to be so extreme," argued the second chief. "We have a precedent, after all, and he managed quite well from what I've heard."

"Indeed he did," said a little old lady in a red shirt and a black coat. She bore the number _III_ on her shoulder. "Now those were the days. I wasn't here when he was a living reaper, of course, but I did know him for a while afterward, and he wasn't a bad fellow. Things were so much more interesting back then as well."

Some of the older council members nodded their heads, smiling, while others merely rolled their eyes or sighed.

"Arthur Pendragon is not part of this discussion," said one council member. "We are deciding the course of action we should take concerning Harry Potter."

"Pendragon is very much part of this," argued another, "as he was our first living reaper. If Soul Society could act on good terms with him and his mentor, Merlin, I see no reason to deny the same courtesy to Potter."

"I disagree," the seventh chief said coldly. "Things change. We are not the same rabble-like Soul Society who needed to accept help from any outside source that offered. As long as this boy is an entity outside of us, he should not be given any treatment as one who is part of us."

"Really, Rhiannon," said the woman in red, "that is rather harsh. It is not as though this is a crafty enemy waiting to stab us in the back the moment we show any trust; it's just a boy."

"Only for a short while longer. In just seven years he will be a man, and seven years is nothing to us."

"I would vouch for his character," Davies insisted. "He always acted gentle and respectful toward the souls he sent on, and he never fought hollows maliciously. I do not think he is, or ever could be, a threat to us."

"If institutions can change, so can people – and people do it so much faster."

"Just because there is potential to change doesn't mean it will happen. Life is not that simple to predict."

"Besides," said the second chief, "wouldn't it be better to welcome and teach him than to push him away? I would think that the first path would inspire more loyalty than the second, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Loyalty doesn't matter right now, or it shouldn't. The boy is still alive, after all. He shouldn't have anything to do with our world."

"That point has already been made," said an older member of the council. She rose and addressed the table at large. "If we have begun to speak in circles, shall we assume that all arguments are out and call for the vote?"

Nobody spoke up. The stately woman let her eyes drift around the table until they stopped on a single, slouching figure.

"Chief Storm. You have not spoken?"

The man looked up with a slight frown.

"Neither has half the council."

"Potter is a reaper – this decision will affect you far more strongly than any of us. Have you nothing to say, then?"

Storm shrugged, light playing across the _IV_ on his right shoulder.

"Not really. I don't actually care either way. If he stays, so be it. If not, nothing changes anyhow."

"In that case, as an unbiased party, would you care to count the votes?"

"Ah, fine."

The woman sat down, and Storm rose. Planting both hands on the table, he leaned forward and stared hard at those sitting around him, giving them a few moments to think.

"Everyone in favor of letting Potter stay here at least this month, hand up."

Half of the reapers, the commander, and a large chunk of the council put a hand in the air. Storm counted them and called for the opposite vote.

"Everyone in favor of sending Potter home, hand up."

Upon finishing his count, Storm nodded.

"Twenty-two votes to ten.

"Potter stays."

* * *

Harry was lost.

Not in the literal sense; he was still within the walls of the Center, and everything was rather straightforward in there, with only eight building clusters and a simple radial layout. He could wander all day and still manage to return to the Asterope barracks simply by walking along the wall until he came upon the building marked by a blue number six. The place was big, but it was no maze.

What Harry felt was, rather, a more profound, abstract sense of loss. It was simply that he had no purposeful direction to take at the moment, and it left him feeling out of sorts.

Longstaff had shown him around the barracks at large, and when their leader, Davies, came back from the meeting with the news that Harry would be spending the rest of the summer there (he still wasn't sure what to do with that piece of information), Longstaff showed Harry to a spare room that would be his for the duration of his stay. Then, all at once, Davies vanished away to 'collect a few things' and Longstaff had needed to take care of some urgent business and Harry was left behind with directions to the cafeteria for lunch and instructions to keep within the Center and to be back by nightfall.

"_Might as well explore,_" Darksun had said, and, not having anything else to do, Harry agreed.

Now, Harry stood uncertainly before a stretch of packed earth, chewing on the last of his sandwich and watching reapers of all sorts spar with each other and practice casting strange spells. There was a group of people in grey shirts with no coats across the field, being instructed in something or another by a reaper wearing yellow, and another large group of reapers – most of them in green – doing some sort of unarmed free-for-all spar which Harry found hard to follow.

Harry felt a strange yearning to go out onto the practice ground himself. He was used to spending time in the park daily with Darksun, and he could sense that Darksun also missed the previous day's cancelled session.

The problem was that the park had never been so _full_. Stepping into this vast area and running through the drills Darksun appointed him seemed almost like showing off, as ridiculous as the notion seemed. Harry definitely wasn't good enough that anyone would take notice of him. All the same, the feeling persisted, and so he hovered uncertainly at the edge of the grounds.

"_Want to go somewhere else?_"

"Yeah, I might," Harry muttered in reply. The dog at his side cast a questioning glance upwards, unobserved by the boy wizard.

"_Tell you what. Find a spot and show me you've got the burning blade thing down, and I'll teach you a new attack._"

Normally, Harry would have felt elated at this promise. Now, however, he was still too confused and reeling slightly from the sudden change in his location and situation. Too much was unfamiliar, and so he only shrugged a little and sent a weak _thanks_ Darksun's way.

"Nobody's going to stop you if you want to practice, you know."

The voice came from behind him. Harry half turned to find its owner and came face-to-face with a small, elderly-looking lady in a red shirt and with a star on the shoulder of her black coat. There was a spark in her brown eyes which was quite similar to Dumbledore's knowing twinkle, and her expression seemed caught in high amusement.

"Sorry," Harry said reflexively, moving aside. "I was just…"

"Are you the new boy?"

"Er…what?"

"The new one. The living reaper. Harry Potter, right?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, I am."

"You look bored."

Harry was taken aback.

"No, I'm not, really…"

"Hm. I was so certain, too. All right, then, what are you? Listless, perhaps?"

Harry tried to think of what 'listless' meant.

"Uh, maybe?"

"Well, come along, then!"

With that, she marched off onto the training field, not looking back. Harry hesitated a moment before following her, the strange black dog bringing up the end of their odd procession.

The stranger – a squad chief, if Harry remembered what he had been told of the star markings correctly – led him to what seemed to be a wooden storage shed set against the far wall. Without ceremony, she opened it and dragged out something which seemed to be a featureless straw scarecrow on a long wooden pole. It was even bigger than she was, and Harry hurried forward to take it from her. Not that there was much difference in size between them, but he felt better carrying the bulky thing than watching a woman who looked like someone's grandmother struggle.

"Ah, thank you. Very kind. Now, just drag it over this way, if you please…"

Harry followed her, his arms around the cumbersome scarecrow's middle while its pole scraped across the ground; it was heavier than it looked, for all that it was made of nothing but bunches of straw bundled together.

"Sorry," he said, when the woman finally stopped a good distance from the shed, "but I'm afraid I don't know…what to call you."

"Hmm? Oh, stupid me. I'm sorry; I quite forgot that you wouldn't know yet. I'm Gwen Hawthorne, Chief of the Taygete squad. To you, that's Chief Hawthorne, though I'm willing to let you call me either straight, plain Hawthorne or Chief Gwen if I can call you Harry. Deal?"

"Um, all right, I guess."

"Very good. Now, just set the pole right in here."

Harry glanced at the ground where Hawthorne was pointing and saw a metal tube set in the dirt. It was exactly the width of the scarecrow's pole, and when he maneuvered the thing into position and tilted it upward, the pole slid in and held there without a problem. With the scarecrow in place, he retreated to where the elderly chief was standing.

"Now, I'm assuming you don't know any deathspells yet?"

"_Death _spells?

"Reaper magic, in other words. Totally different from your wizard magic, since it comes from a spirit form instead of a living body."

"Well, no, then."

"All right. This should be fun, in that case. I'll teach you a binding spell first. Watch and listen carefully."

Hawthorne waved Harry to the side a bit, took a wider stance, and stretched both of her hands out before her, palms facing the scarecrow and fingers angled inward so that their tips nearly touched each other.

"Isa, be still! Halt and contemplate the frosted stars. Look inward along the line of ice. First seal: quiet ropes!"

The woman abruptly drew her hands downward, and in a snap the scarecrow's floppy arms and legs were clamped together, forcing the entire figure into a perfect vertical line. Hawthorne eyed the dummy approvingly before waving her hand, and whatever force that held the straw figure in place vanished, allowing the loose limbs to dangle freely again.

"Your turn."

Harry looked at her in something like disbelief.

"I have to say _all of that_?"

"The first few times you use this spell, yes. Once you get used to it, however, it is possible to skip the bulk of the incantation. That does tend to cut the power down, though."

"Not that I don't appreciate you teaching me this, but is it really necessary? I mean, I could do exactly the same thing with _petrificus totalus_, and that's much faster."

Instead of getting angry at Harry's near-rudeness, the little old lady's smile stretched wider.

"Be my guest."

"…huh?"

"Go ahead. Bind that dummy any way you like."

"I…I don't have my wand right now…"

"_Exactly_."

Harry stared at her for a long moment, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Reaching inward quickly, he looked to Darksun for help.

"_Sorry, Harry. You're on your own for this one. For all that I'm an element-type sword, this kind of magic never was my thing._"

Right, then. Harry opened his eyes and stepped forward, taking a position like Hawthorne's had been and raising his hands. Abruptly, the woman reached toward him and slapped his hands down.

"No. Take whatever stance feels comfortable to _you_. My casting stance will probably not be the same as yours. The only rule for this spell is the downwards hand motion at the end. Now try again."

Harry shifted uncertainly into a right foot forward fighting stance, glancing at Hawthorne. She didn't move to correct him, so he held it and pointed his right hand at the dummy. Pausing for a moment, Harry rotated slightly so that his torso faced away from the target at an angle rather than being squared up directly against it. Finally feeling comfortable with his position, he reached into his memory for the words, paused, and then turned his head sheepishly toward Hawthorne.

"Sorry. I forgot the incantation."

"Isa, be still!"

"Er…Isa, be still."

"Halt and contemplate the frosted stars."

"Halt and…contemplate the frosted stars."

"Look inward along the line of ice."

"Look inward along the line of ice."

"First seal: quiet ropes!"

"First seal: quiet ropes!"

Remembering what Hawthorne had said, Harry pressed his hand downward quickly. He felt something stir in him, something like his aura though it was more focused and, in a strange sense, more solid. The feeling vanished abruptly, and the scarecrow thing shuddered as one arm was clamped to its side and its legs pressed together. Before Harry could feel either elation at a near-success or disappointment at the incomplete binding, the dummy went limp again, escaping the bonds of the weak spell.

Disappointment won, but with it came the oddest firming of his mind. Harry had not succeeded, certainly, but he was _not_ going to let a straw man beat him.

"One arm and the legs? For just a moment?"

Hawthorne stepped up beside Harry and dropped one hand thoughtfully to the top of the always-present dog's head, stroking the pricked ears absently.

"I know," Harry said quickly, "let me try again, and I'll—"

"Boy," the Taygete chief interrupted him, looking up with bright eyes and a big grin, "you're missing the point. You're a natural!"

"—get…it…this…what?"

"Only to be expected, the former wizards and witches generally do take better to deathspells than most. Yes, try again. This time, pay attention to the feel of the spell, and try to hold that longer. Go on, go on, then!"

He was good at this?

Harry felt something inside his chest grow warm at the praise and at the thought. He was _good_ at this. The boy wizard raised his hand again, focusing harder, and this time he didn't hesitate to repeat the strange phrase, as nonsensical and longwinded as it was. Both of the dummy's arms were trapped firmly this time, though its legs still dangled free, and Harry smiled a little. He would get this; he was determined to.

At that moment, sitting in the back of Harry's mind, Darksun realized with a sinking feeling that, for the first time since Harry had accepted his reaper abilities, he was unneeded. When it came to these deathspells, the sword could offer Harry nothing. So, unnoticed by his wielder, Darksun retreated yet again into that quiet, solitary inner world, leaving the wizard to learn and practice alone.

* * *

Sirius had never experienced a more bizarre twenty-four hour period in his life, and given some of the things the Marauders had gotten up to, that meant a lot. In fact, he still wasn't sure what was really going on, just that somehow, inexplicably, he had gotten caught up in the middle of it.

At the moment, though, he had to admit to himself that it wasn't half bad. His belly was full, and he apparently was getting to kip out in the room given to Harry in…wherever this was. People kept mentioning 'Soul Society' and 'afterlife' and 'Center' and stuff like that, and they kept referring to each other (and Harry) as 'reapers,' and it was all too bizarre to be anything but some kind of elaborate underground set-up or something. There was no way this place was an actual _afterlife_-afterlife.

For one thing, James and Lily hadn't met them the moment they got here. Sirius could understand why they wouldn't come for him – he had failed them utterly, convinced them to trust the traitor in the group with the secret that was the key to their lives – but with Harry there…no. No way would they miss out on meeting _him_.

For another thing, everyone was much too alive to be dead. It sounded silly, but Sirius couldn't think of any other way to put it. People ate, drank, slept, and he could faintly smell the toilets when they passed them in the halls. He had seen a young couple holding hands as they walked out there, seen children outside of these walls, seen elderly figures, seen every stage of life as though it were actually _life_, and so it had to be.

In the end, Sirius concluded that this was some kind of underground community of magicians who were paranoid to the point of using code-names like 'reaper' or 'afterlife' to hide themselves. They probably opposed dark powers, and Dumbledore had sent Harry there to learn to protect himself, to connect with other light wizards, to keep safe from what Death Eaters still walked free in England.

Sirius could almost, _almost_, convince himself.

Almost.

"Hey, boy," Harry said, dropping to his knees in front of Sirius and ruffling his ears. "Weird day, huh?"

The kid had no idea. Well, maybe he did, actually, but he wasn't conscious for the bizarre trip through the archway and tunnel which Sirius could see-but-not-see. He still wasn't sure what that thing had been, nor why the person carrying Harry had been an indistinct smudge in the air until they emerged from the tunnel at last.

"Weird, but good," Harry said, standing up and leaning the sheathed sword in his hand (_Why does he even have that?_) against the wall at the head of the small bed. His fingers lingered on the hilt for a moment. Sirius didn't exactly have the best angle to observe his face, but he thought that a small frown passed across Harry's countenance, there and gone in an instant.

Sirius whined a little and stretched his paw forward, placing it on Harry's foot. The boy turned to him with a smile and patted his head again.

"It's okay, Snuffles."

Blasted old woman. Looks like the name she gave him stuck. All the same, Sirius thought, it could probably have been worse. Like Blackie. Or Fido. At least 'Snuffles' had a dash of character to it.

"He's probably just gotten tired of just hanging around so much. I expect it's boring, watching someone practice magic like that – you'd know, wouldn't you?"

_He? Hanging around? _

Sirius still couldn't work out just what Harry was talking about. He had seen no '_he'_ hanging around watching them. He cocked his head in as puzzled a gesture as he could manage, thumping his tail twice for good measure.

Harry wasn't paying attention to him. Instead, he stared at thin air, unfocused, but with a range of emotions passing over his face, from concern to surprised understanding to slight guilt.

"Yeah," he muttered suddenly, "sorry. I think it's useful…I know. Tomorrow? I'll ask. Alternating days, that way…"

Abruptly, Harry rose from his near-stupor and nudged Sirius' side with his foot as he crossed the room to climb into the bed set in the corner. He yawned, and Sirius felt something in the air get a little heavier just before the light set in the ceiling went out.

"Night, Snuffles. Dark."

Somehow, Sirius didn't think that 'dark' was just a comment being made on the current state of the room's lighting. He shivered and curled himself into a tighter loop on the blanket crumpled on the floor. It had been a bizarre day, he wasn't sure if they were actually dead or not, and Sirius was very, very worried about his godson's mental state.

'Snuffles' didn't get much sleep that night.

* * *

Over the next month, Harry found himself slipping into a comfortable routine not too unlike what he had while living with the Dursleys. By occupying himself with practice with Darksun, playing with Snuffles, and learning new spells with either Chief Gwen or one of the other reapers she had dragged up and introduced him to, Harry remained largely unaware of how quickly time was slipping by, and therefore it was a bit of a surprise one day to wake up and realize that he only had a week left before returning to Hogwarts.

"_Looking forward to school?"_ Darksun casually asked Harry as he speared a couple of pancakes from the stack in the cafeteria. The boy shrugged as he picked up some bacon, passing a piece to Snuffles on their way to a table.

"Looking forward to friends," Harry replied quietly.

He couldn't explain it properly, but lately his relationship with Darksun seemed oddly strained. Whereas the sword had previously spent almost all of his time directly in the back of Harry's mind, offering commentary and random bits of information on whatever was happening outside, now Harry rarely heard the echoing voice, and there were long stretches of time when the sword retreated into his soul without a trace. When he did speak, it was mostly to impart advice or something equally serious; casual questions such as the one he just asked came sporadically and carried an uneasy air. In addition, Darksun had only controlled Harry's body once since coming here, and that was to briefly demonstrate a new technique with his released sword.

As loud and borderline-rude as the spirit blade had been in the past, as uncomfortable as Harry felt when not controlling his own body, he actually rather missed the old Darksun.

_I'm going to practice that technique again today,_ Harry continued, this time passing his thoughts to Darksun in silence. _Anything special you want me to do with it?_

"…_No. What you've been doing is fine. Keep it up_."

Disappointed, Harry bent over his breakfast without another word, internal or not. Sirius looked up and bumped his nose against the boy's side, hoping to impart some comfort for his godson's recent low mood. He got another slice of bacon for his troubles, and while that was nice, it wasn't quite what he had been after.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

The wizard in question looked up and cracked a small smile as he saw the person calling him.

"Hullo, John."

John Tanner, a junior member of Asterope squad, jogged up to the table with an answering grin. He was tall and lanky, caught somewhere in his teen years, and carried himself with a casual, easy-going air. His long legs made him a fast runner, and that combined with his stamina and knack for sensing individual auras meant that he was often called upon to deliver messages in the squad. Harry knew him more as an acquaintance than a friend, but that didn't stop the older boy from acting as though they had known each other for years. That friendly nature was simply the way he was.

"Glad I caught you before you went out. Don't feel like running back and forth across the Center today. Got something to tell you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. After you're done eating, head over to the chief's office. Guess he wants to talk to you."

"Oh. Did he say what about?"

"No, didn't give a clue. I don't think it's anything bad, though. Anyhow, I gotta go now, since he also gave me something to pass on to Chief Blackbourne. Catch you later?"

"Sure. Bye."

John spun on his toes and dashed from the room, waving over his shoulder even as he dodged reapers and their plates of food with ease. Harry wolfed down the last of his pancakes and also made for the door, Snuffles following close on his heels.

Harry had only been to Davies' office once before, when the reaper had called him to hand over some books and other materials for homework which he had collected from the Dursleys' house. All the same, Harry expected it would be rather simple to find: the office was contained in the building's sole tower, right at the point where the rest of the structure's roof peaked. All he had to do was wander around the correct end of the building until he came across the spiral stairs.

It took him a few minutes longer than he had expected, but Harry's plan worked, and soon he was ascending the dizzying steps two at a time. Upon reaching Davies' door, he found it open and the reaper apparently waiting for him.

"Harry. Good to see you again. How've you been?"

Feeling like he had been called to talk to one of his professors, Harry pushed the door shut behind him, though not before Snuffles managed to slip through, and crossed over to sit in the chair Davies was indicating across his desk.

"Fine, sir, thanks."

"You start school again in a week, right?"

Harry merely nodded.

"Right. Before you go, there are a couple of things I need to give you, including a bit of information. I had to argue Albus Dumbledore himself down to get permission to tell you this, so pay attention, please.

"The truth is, Harry, you didn't just spend part of your summer here because you're a reaper or because you needed training. Albus actually asked us take you in because of a different situation entirely. How much do you know about Sirius Black?"

On the ground beside Harry's chair, Snuffles abruptly stiffened. Nobody in the room noticed.

"What, the escaped murderer? Not much, really. Why?"

"Black isn't just a normal murderer. He's a wizard and a follower of that Dark Lord which was running rampant a little over a decade ago. He's mad, dangerous, and apparently he blames you for his leader's death. The dementors that attacked you were called out to that area because some muggle sighted him there and called the hotline. I'm pretty sure you can guess what all this means."

Snuffles whined piteously. Harry dropped a hand over the side of his chair to stroke the dog's head.

"What, he wants to kill me?"

"Yes, he does. He knows you're at Hogwarts right now, and since he attended the school years ago, even it may not be entirely safe for you."

"Oh."

A sinking feeling filled Harry.

"You're still going back to school this year, don't worry. Albus doesn't want this to mess up your education if possible. But there are going to be a few issues to work out first. See, your ministry controls the dementors somehow. How is beyond me. The point of that is your minister, Fudge, decided it was in everyone's best interest to have the monsters guard the school against Black."

"Those things…at _Hogwarts_?"

"Yeah, I know. Dumbledore fought it, but even he can't veto a decision approved by so many high-ranking ministry officials. The dementors have orders not to harm any student or teacher there, but they're going to be so strongly drawn to you that we aren't certain those orders can hold them back entirely."

"Drawn to me?"

"They're like hollows; they eat souls. The method and end result is different somehow, but it's essentially the same thing overall. As a human, you have a very strong soul. As a reaper with a spirit blade, it's…well, it's sort of like the difference between a chocolate shell and a chocolate shell with cream filling, if you pardon the analogy. I never was very good at making up comparisons like that."

"So why am I going back?"

"The dementors won't be in the castle itself. They're only allowed to patrol the very borders of the grounds. Thing is, you'll have to avoid them, which means that you probably shouldn't leave the grounds any more often than you absolutely have to. Even if your guardians had signed the permission form we found, Hogsmeade weekends would have to be out."

Bitter disappointment welled up in Harry. It figured that Uncle Vernon would refuse to sign after all, and that probably on the excuse that Harry hadn't technically lasted the entire week with Marge. Not that it mattered now, of course, but it still hurt a bit to know that he had gotten so close to actually gaining a concession of sorts from his overbearing relatives and still failed in the end.

"However, I have an alternative for you. Draw your sword and place it on the desk, please."

Harry put a hand on Darksun's hilt to comply, half rose from his chair, and suddenly paused.

"What are you going to do?"

"Key it."

An image flashed through Harry's mind of the sword being notched along the edge like an old-fashioned key.

"Er…what exactly does that…"

"Nothing bad, I promise. I'm just going to do a bit of death magic which will let you open the Archway yourself."

"Open the – you mean, I'll have a way to come back here?"

"Exactly. While your peers go off to Hogsmeade, you can go to your dormitory for a 'nap,' leave your body, and come visit us for the day if you like. We're trusting you not to misuse this ability, of course – you are to travel directly from your room to one of the official gates and vice versa, and you should probably limit it mostly to those weekends for the most part. Deal?"

Harry drew Darksun fully and laid it on Davies' desk with a wide grin.

"Deal."

The wizarding village sounded very fun and very interesting, but since he wouldn't be allowed, at least returning to the Center now and again was a nice compensation. As Davies leaned over the sword, muttering a long string of nonsense phrases which made up a deathspell's incantation, Harry dropped back into his seat and rubbed at the ears of a very forlorn-looking Snuffles.

A soft flare of light drew his eyes back to the sword on the desk. Davies leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

"Done. Okay, you can take him back now, Harry."

The sword didn't look or feel any different. If Harry hadn't just watched Davies perform the magic, he wouldn't have known that a spell had been cast on the blade at all.

"Thanks," he said happily, sliding it back into its sheath.

"I'll show you how to use it now," Davies said, standing up and gesturing for Harry to follow him. "Really simple, actually; the only trick is getting your destination right. The Archway can be a little fickle with how far off the ground it appears, too."

"All right. Hey, um, chief Davies? I was wondering something. What about Snuffles?"

"What about him?"

"I mean, I don't think dogs are allowed at Hogwarts. I've never seen any, really, so I was wondering…"

"We could keep him here. Actually, the squad's gotten rather attached to him. The few times he hasn't been at your side, I've come across him getting doted on by any reapers that happen to be around."

"Oh, really?"

Harry glanced down and back at Snuffles briefly; they were descending the stairs, after all. The dog somehow managed to look vaguely sheepish, as though he knew exactly what they were talking about. Sometimes, Harry rather thought that he was more intelligent than he let on.

"Yes, really. The amount of food that gets snuck to him, it's a wonder he's not rolling down the halls behind you instead of walking. They love him; he's like an unofficial mascot."

Harry felt the weight of his worry lift at the reassurance that the dog wouldn't go uncared for while he was away at school.

"Well, that's good then. As long as he gets exercised, I mean."

Snuffles whined and butted his head against Harry's legs.

"Don't worry, boy," Harry said over his shoulder. "You'll be fine, and I'll come visit. Promise."

With that, Harry hurried after Davies to the stone archway that stood in the grass outside of the Asterope barracks to learn how to open and close the doors between worlds, leaving Snuffles – Sirius – to slow to a halt and watch him go.

On the one hand – paw, whatever – he needed to get to Hogwarts. He needed to kill Peter before the traitor could harm Harry. On the other, however, the little rat (literally as well as figuratively) had already been sleeping in that dormitory (the thought alone twisted Sirius' guts up in knots) for two years, and he hadn't done a thing.

The Archway glowed white. A pair of black butterflies appeared, and Harry and Davies stepped into the light, vanishing utterly.

Sirius wondered if he could follow Harry through the Archway like he did before. If he could get through unnoticed, it's not like they'd insist he go back, and it's not like they could _make_ him. He also needed to avoid the dementors that would be patrolling outside of the school, and the Archway would be a convenient way about that, far more convenient than even the tunnel between the Shrieking Shack and the Whomping Willow would have been. It would save travel time, too, not to mention that if he waited until Harry's first visit, he would be taken straight to the dormitory in question, and therefore the rat.

The Archway glowed once more, and Davies and Harry returned, the first nodding and gesturing as he explained some particular concept or another while the second smiled and said something in reply. The butterflies were back with them, circling their heads in an odd sort of dance.

Sirius squinted his eyes in thought. To follow, or not to follow? Patience never had sat very well with him, though he certainly understood its value thanks to some of the pranks he and his friends had pulled off at Hogwarts. Weighing the pros and cons of the situation also told him that it was probably in his better interest to wait the month or two that would pass before the first Hogsmeade weekend.

Oh, and Dumbledore. He had to avoid Dumbledore. No telling how much the headmaster already knew about him, about his animagus form…

Decision made, Sirius laid down in the grass to watch Harry and Davies vanish through the Archway yet again.

He would wait.

* * *

The last week passed swiftly, even by that month's standards. It seemed to Harry that at one moment he was learning to summon a Hell Butterfly and open a gateway across worlds, and the next he was standing in the train station just outside of Platform 9 and ¾, back in his own body with his trunk and all of his belongings right next to him on one side and an empty space on the other where Snuffles usually would have been.

Excited, nervous, and feeling slightly surreal, Harry wheeled his cart around and searched for the mob of red hair that would usually be showing up at around this time –

"Harry!"

He turned around and a smile stretched across his face as he waved at Hermione across the station. She was hurrying toward him, just ahead of Ron, who was himself just ahead of the red-headed pack Harry had been looking for. With a happy sort of jolt in his chest, he recognized the snowy owl in the cage on top of Ron's trunk as Hedwig, and the little gap in his presence that Snuffles had left behind closed up just a little.

"How've you been, mate?"

"Did you have a good summer, Harry?"

He took Hedwig's cage from Ron and grinned widely.

"Best _ever_."

For the moment, Harry could put his mind away from the news about Black, away from the very forlorn Snuffles he had left behind, away from the still-recalcitrant spirit blade living in his soul. He didn't mind the vague discomfort of being back in his physical body after spending so much time in spirit form or the lingering apprehension of being so near the dementors again.

It was time to return to the first real home he had ever known.

He was going back to Hogwarts.


	5. Chapter 5

The train lurched, strained, and then started to move, pistons creaking and steam rising from the engine. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the platform outside the window fell away and was replaced by buildings full of people who could not see through the enchantments protecting them – people who had no idea a train track was laid there at all or, indeed, that any space existed for one in that place. Within a few minutes, the crowded buildings of London were replaced by blurs of green and smaller clusters of human habitation, and then, eventually, nothing but wide fields and blue sky.

Harry leaned back against the seat cushion with a quiet exhale. To be returning to Hogwarts after spending a month in another dimension altogether…he honestly wasn't sure if he felt as though he was waking up from a dream or falling into one. There was a slightly surreal quality to the thought of the transition between spirit world and living one, and he had to wonder if he would ever get used to it. Just as he was drifting into memory, Ron's voice broke into his ears.

"Where _were_ you this summer, mate?"

Harry looked up at Ron blankly for a moment, scrambling his brain back into order.

"Er, sorry? What was it?"

"This summer. Mum and Dad tried to ask Dumbledore where you went, 'cause Hedwig couldn't find you when we tried to send her back, but he wouldn't give a straight answer except that you were fine and not at the Dursleys."

"Oh," Harry said, stalling a little. He didn't think that the afterlife was supposed to be common knowledge, and he didn't want to imagine his friends' reactions to finding out that he was technically both dead and alive. Plus, he thought, his eyes flicking over to the sleeping man across the cabin, what if _he_ woke up in the middle of the explanation? If telling his friends the truth might not be a good idea, telling a stranger, even accidentally, was definitely out.

"You _were_ all right, weren't you, Harry?" Hermione asked, worry evident in her voice.

"Yeah, I was fine. Just someplace Dumbledore sent me – I guess there were a lot of wards or something, I didn't really think about owls getting in or out at the time. Sorry I worried you."

Hermione's expression changed, and with a momentary sinking feeling in his gut, Harry recognized it as her serious thinking face. She was about to pick a hole straight through his explanation, he knew it.

"Why would Dumbledore go to all that trouble, though?"

In an instant, Harry hit upon the answer to that. Best of all, it was technically true.

"Black," he said, very simply. "Because of Sirius Black."

"What, the crazy murderer?" Ron replied in surprise. "What's he got to do with anything?"

"Someone had to explain that to me, too," Harry said, "but it seems he was a follower of Voldemort –" Ron flinched – "and a pretty strong one, so when I…well, survived, I guess…and Voldemort vanished…"

"Black blamed you," Hermione surmised quickly and concisely. "He thought that it had to be your fault his master died and so he now wants revenge. Right?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Wow," Ron said quietly, staring at Harry in a sort of awe-struck pity, "you get all the bad luck in the world sometimes."

"Seems like it," Harry smiled wryly. "Though I think it's sort of toning down a bit. I mean, first it was a ghost Voldemort attached to our teacher, then it was a young memory of Voldemort ordering a giant snake around, but now we just have a follower of him. Doesn't sound too awful to me, really."

"A follower who broke out of Azkaban, the most secure wizarding prison in the world," Ron pointed out. "That's pretty bad."

"Azka—what?"

Harry looked at Hermione, who shook her head a little, looking nonplussed that something existed which she had not yet read about, and read about extensively.

"Wizarding prison," Ron repeated, pleased to be the knowledgeable one for once, "awful place. My dad had to visit once for work and he came back all pale and shaking. It's on a little island off the coast somewhere and dementors guard it."

Harry couldn't stop the shiver at the mention of dementors. Hermione noticed.

"You know about dementors, Harry?"

"Yeah. Someone reported spotting Black in the neighborhood last month, and they sent a couple out to get him. They're also having dementors guard the school this year."

The reaction was immediate.

"_What?_"

The man in the corner, who had been snoring very softly, jerked a little at the loud noise. The trio froze, eyeing him for a moment before scooting closer and bringing their heads together to whisper.

"Dementors to guard a school?" Hermione hissed. How she could make such a sound indignant was beyond either of the boys. "Are they mad?"

"I heard they aren't supposed to enter the grounds," Harry murmured in reply, "Just watch the borders. But, yeah, I agree – someone's a little off their rocker."

Ron looked a little lost.

"Uh, not to sound stupid, but what's the problem?"

Hermione looked at him in blatant disbelief.

"Dementors, Ron. _De-men-tors_."

"I know what they are," he hissed back angrily. "But if it's just the outside borders of the school…not like they're inside, walking the halls between classes."

"They suck souls out, Ron!" Hermione replied, her voice growing in volume. Harry nudged her leg with his foot, jerking his head to the snoring professor by the window. The girl immediately dropped her voice again, though the intensity of it remained the same. "They make you re-live your most horrible memories just by being nearby. How can they possibly condone setting those creatures around a school full of children?"

"But they won't _dare_ do anything to us," Ron protested, "not while Dumbledore's around!"

Hermione quieted, not having an immediate answer for that. Then, at last, she sat back a bit and began to worry at her bottom lip, the indignant anger not yet faded from her features. For a long while, they rode in silence. Harry was just thinking about following the stranger's example by taking a nap against the wall when a flicker of motion in Hermione's direction caught his eye. He turned his head toward her to see her pulling a straw basket up to the seat beside her and fumbling with the latch on it. Ron, at that moment, also caught sight of what she was doing, and he instantly paled.

"Don't you dare let that monster out of--!"

The basket lid sprang open, and out jumped one of the ugliest cats Harry had ever seen. It was bandy-legged, with bright orange fur that could probably rival Darksun's hair in shade and a face that made it look as though it had run head-first into a brick wall sometime in the past. Repeatedly. The cat swept bright eyes over the man in the corner and its fur prickled just a little as though in fear before it relaxed again and turned toward Harry for his own scanned examination. Apparently, he passed muster, because the cat promptly turned away to ignore him and focused its attention on Ron, who had scooted as far away as possible and was protectively cradling a quivering lump in his shirt pocket – Scabbers. The cat's eyes brightened, sharpening until Harry was certain it was trying to turn the air itself into a sword aimed for the rat. He was just wondering if he might have to get involved in a fight between the feline and his best friend when Hermione scooped the cat close and set him on her lap.

"No, Crookshanks," she said lovingly, "leave Scabbers alone."

The cat's tail twitched and its eyes never left the spot on Ron's back that corresponded to the lump against his chest, but it settled back into Hermione's arms and submitted to being stroked.

"What's that?" Harry asked, still watching Crookshanks. Hermione sent him a withering glare.

"It's a _cat_, Harry, have you ever heard of them?"

"I know it's a cat," he protested, thinking privately that Hermione was being a little over-defensive of it. Perhaps Ron had been teasing the thing – with a face like that, it'd be pretty easy to do. "I meant to ask where it came from or something. I didn't know you _got _a cat."

"Birthday present," Hermione replied, less testily now that Harry had assured her that he wasn't cracking a joke at the feline's expense. Her hand was still stroking fluffy orange fur. "Mum and dad gave me a little money this year and I thought I'd get a pet. The shopkeeper said that Crookshanks, here, had been in the shop forever, no one wanted him, poor thing."

"Small wonder," Ron muttered. Hermione stiffened and shot him a glare, hugging Crookshanks just a little tighter. Harry wondered if they were going to be like this all year. Just then, he felt a familiar tickle in the back of his mind and heard something like a small groan.

_Oh, not you, too!_ He thought, a little more sternly than might have been usual. Ron and Hermione were being bad enough; Harry didn't need the voice sharing his head and soul to start complaining as well.

"_Hate cats," _Darksun replied. _"The way they look at you…"_

With that, Darksun faded into the background again. Harry could sense him in the back of his mind, but not prominently. Resisting the urge to shake his head outwardly, knowing it could lead to awkward questions, he leaned back into his seat and strove to ignore his bickering friends until they eventually quieted and turned away from each other, opting for a mutual silence treatment.

Eventually, Harry managed to entice Ron into a game of Exploding Snap, muffled by a handy spell from Hermione – though Harry had to ask for it, as Ron was still giving her a cool shoulder – and so between that, a heavy book for Hermione, and a few snacks from the trolly witch, time passed quickly. However, it was much to their surprise when the train began to slow down.

"We can't be here already," Ron said, standing up and ignoring his cards as they exploded at his feet. Harry took that as a victory and also scrambled upright, peering out the window at what appeared to be a bare, foggy moor. There was no Hogsmeade train station in sight, and though the sun was hidden behind thick clouds, he was certain it wasn't quite late enough for evening, having developed a very decent internal clock from living in the Center for a month, where he didn't have a watch and had to rely on sun or, on rainy days, pure intuition.

"Perhaps there's a problem," Hermione suggested, folding her book closed and sliding it from her lap to the seat beside her. On her other side, Crookshanks glared at the window, his tail twitching as though angry at the piece of glass. Harry frowned; was it just him, or was the air colder than it had been that morning? The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Something felt wrong.

"I'll go talk to the conductor," Hermione said, standing and moving toward the door. At once, Harry grabbed for her arm and caught her before she could step out.

"Don't," he said tightly, for he suddenly recognized the freezing sensation and the echoing, warped aura. "Don't go out there."

"Harry?" Ron asked, bewildered. Their breath was beginning to puff in the air. Frost was forming on the outside window, crackling across the glass in a pattern that might well have been beautiful in another situation, but now only seemed deadly, ominous. Harry stared hard into Hermione's eyes, willing her to understand without words that she _couldn't go out_. Slowly, Hermione backed away from the door and returned to her seat. All three were now shivering with cold.

"Dementors?" Hermione breathed, careful with the word, as though speaking it could summon them. Harry simply nodded. Ron turned pale around his freckles and swallowed hard.

"It's all right," Hermione said quickly, softly, trying to sound rational and failing as she couldn't suppress the tremor in her voice and she was breathing just a little too quickly. "It's all right, they're just checking outside the train, no need to come close, even, they wouldn't ever allow the things near small children, there are eleven-year-olds on here, nothing to worry about…"

But Harry remembered another voice, one which told him something very different: _You are a soul reaper, and because of that, dementors will be strongly drawn to you_. Strongly enough to deliberately find loopholes and gaps in orders, just so they could pursue him. All at once, Harry realized what danger he was putting his friends in just by being near them. Without thinking clearly about where he might go, without considering just what he planned to do, he took a single, abrupt step toward the door. At that same moment, it slid open, and everyone in the cabin froze.

Three tall beings floated in the doorway, hooded and cloaked in black with only rotting hands visible in the folds of fabric. The cold feeling seemed to radiate from them in waves, drawing air from human lungs with its sharp intensity. Harry could hear voices begin to murmur in the far reaches of his mind and memory, darkness edging up with the disembodied sobs and cackles. The almost-hollow aura of the dementors choked him as surely as the physical cold, and he groped momentarily, instinctively, at his side for Darksun's hilt, though even if the sword had been there, his arm would have lacked the strength to draw it.

_Not Harry, please, not Harry!_

_Step aside…step aside, foolish girl!_

_KAA-CHAN!_

Harry jerked a little and felt Darksun's presence in his mind, spreading out, trying to shelter him, but the memories and the influence of the dementors simply stabbed through the both of them as though they were made of paper.

The foremost dementor floated further into the compartment, slowly raising its horrible, scabbed hands up towards its hood, which was pointed directly at Harry. Though he had certainly never been a coward at heart, Harry couldn't help his instinctive reaction to back away, press himself against the far compartment wall, and squeeze his eyes shut in the vain, childish hope that if he couldn't see them, they might go away. The darkness behind his closed eyes reminded him of something, and so he reached as quickly as he could toward the black pit in his mind which was the source of his deathspells and his aura, though he could not recall any of the words he would need.

The voices in his head were growing louder, almost more insistent, and the fear he felt was drowning him, but Harry forced his physical eyes open as his mental ones searched the darkness for a spell, any spell.

Ron and Hermione had shrunk against each other in a corner, so terrified they had forgotten their previous quarrel. Crookshanks had vanished, probably under the seats. And the stranger, their new professor, had awoken and moved to stand between the children and the dementors with his wand up. He was saying something; Harry couldn't hear it properly. He didn't care; he began to raise a trembling hand to point it at the one dementor he could still clearly see around the professor's thin frame. The one dementor he was certain he could hit without hitting anyone else, even with his shaky arm and blurring vision. Harry thought he had the words now, and he reached deeper into the dark pit for the power that should have been there, the now-familiar feeling of his aura. He found nothing but the invading, hollow presence of the dementors, and freezing cold swept through him without warning. In a heart-jarring instant, something changed, and the world outside vanished. He was swallowed in his own mind's darkness. What happened? Did he lose his balance? Harry couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed, if he was falling or floating. All he knew was that he had to be conscious, had to be if he was thinking.

The voices were louder. The feelings sharper.

_Not Harry! Take me, kill me instead!_

Primal terror, the instinctive fear of an infant who knew something was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ but didn't know _what_ or _why_. The need to wail, to scream for mother to come and protect him, but mother was there, and she was already crying, and that was even scarier, and then she was silent and he was terrified beyond even screaming, beyond even moving, and somebody with a cold, high cackle was screaming other words and his head and the center of his chest _hurt_…

Then came the other voices, the ones Harry had never before understood, and with them, all of the emotions pent up inside of those memories which could not have been his.

_Kaa-chan!_

Mother…no, mommy. Mommy was dead. Heart broken in two, throat torn from screaming, rain plastering his hair to his head and mixing with his tears. A center torn out, gravity stolen away, feeling himself spin out, out, into nothing, nowhere, even though he knew his knees – smaller knees than Harry thought he should have, but who was Harry? – were firmly planted in bloody rock and grass and there was so much blood, it was all over his hands, and mommy wasn't moving because she was _dead_.

Mother was dead, silenced suddenly by a rush of green light and a shrieking voice. Mommy was dead, stilled by heavy, sticky, cooling blood and rain.

And he, they, whoever, whatever, curled up moaning in the darkness and wished it would stop stop stop, because it had been too long already even if it was, perhaps, only seconds spent in the memories.

And then, so quickly that he couldn't be sure they were really gone at all, the voices and the feelings vanished. Normality returned; he was Harry, just Harry. He wasn't floating in darkness, but laying on his side on something hard and a little prickly, something which was dry and formed in paperlike strips which rustled as he sat up, breathing hard, and blinked through the pitch darkness, trying to find something to see. Gradually, but with increasing speed, the black lightened to grey, then to a sort of soft violet, and then pinks and baby blues and pastel yellows spread like watercolors across a distant, flat horizon, and Harry finally recognized the grassy plain of his inner world, though he had only been there once before. Faster than the real sun could have done it, the yellow disc of this world's sun rose, lifted from the horizon, and lit up the blue sky again. Harry's heart still hammered with the leftover dredges of instinctive fear, but he was calming slowly as he sat up and drank in the sight of open morning skies as though they were water for a thirsty child. The danger was gone.

"Are you all right?"

Harry looked over his shoulder to see the large, green tree that dominated the center of his mind. Darksun was sitting on one of the lowest branches, his feet dangling over open air. His face was devoid of its scowl; he actually looked concerned.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks," Harry said, standing up and brushing himself off. Darksun nodded and jumped from the branch, falling several feet to land in an effortless crouch.

"Well, then, let's get you back out of here," he said, approaching Harry. "You're probably unconscious outside, and your friends…"

Harry wasn't paying attention to his words, though. Something else had caught his attention – a faint accent in the English, hidden a little by the distorting echo, but blatantly apparent once he noticed it. He looked at his sword in utter shock.

"It was you!"

Darksun stopped, confused.

"Eh? What?"

"It was…oh, Merlin," Harry's voice dropped, instantly becoming uncomfortable. Spying on a terrible memory like that one, no matter how unintentional, felt vaguely wrong to him, _especially_ since he had also felt every single emotion that ran through it. "I'm sorry. I had no idea…but now I'm confused. I thought you were a spirit blade?"

"I am," Darksun said, his scowl back in place but the worry still apparent in his expression. "Look, you _sure_ you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that the dementors…well, it wasn't just _my_ memory I heard, I guess."

Darksun's scowl deepened. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes, and for a long moment, they stood there in silence.

"It wasn't important," Darksun finally said, still refusing to meet Harry's gaze directly. "Whatever you saw, ignore it. It's the past, so it's nothing now."

Harry was still on edge. He was still scared, confused, full of conflicting feelings of love and terror and far out of his element, and his next words came as a shock even to himself.

"That was _your_ mother, wasn't it," Harry stated, and then, because it was already too late and he might as well get out everything else that had been worrying at his mind, he continued, "And that voice, that little boy…that was you. Your past isn't _nothing_. I felt everything you did, and you…I bet you felt my memories as well. That's not nothing."

Darksun stiffened, and his eyes flicked up to meet Harry's, full of anger and indecision and something like mild shock. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak.

"Time to go," he said, stalking forward. Harry stumbled back, at first by instinct, then because he needed to understand something, and Darksun wouldn't give him time to ask.

"No."

"You need to leave now."

"Absolutely not. We aren't done here."

Darksun lunged for Harry, but the boy wizard skipped aside and, just the way Darksun had taught him, picked up his leg and drove a hard side kick into the sword's exposed ribs. The blow surprised the sword; he couldn't block or dodge by the time the edge of Harry's shoe struck his side. The force of the kick made him grunt and stagger sideways, staring at Harry in shock.

Harry used the opportunity to leap backwards several paces.

"I need to know something, Dark."

"Whatever it is, it's not your business."

"You live in my _soul_. I think that makes it my business. Look, I know I can't force you to do anything, but for Merlin's sake, would you at least quit it already?"

Darksun leaped forward and drove a punch toward the side of Harry's head. Harry ducked and retreated further, Darksun following quickly.

"I'm just trying to get you to get out of here and wake up," Darksun replied angrily, "you know they're probably getting worried up there."

"That's not what I meant by 'quit it'!" Harry dodged another punch, but failed to see the kick until it was almost too late. He still ended up flying backwards, even after using his aura to lessen the damage as much as possible. Harry landed on his feet several yards away, breathing hard to regain the wind that had nearly been knocked out of him.

"I meant that you've been acting distant, ever since the day those dementors attacked! _That's _what I want you to quit. Did you know that I heard your memory then? That's what was wrong, isn't it?"

"No. Shut up. You don't…know…"

Darksun broke off with a grunt as Harry snuck another successful punch under his guard to his ribs before leaping back again, trying to stay out of Darksun's range until he could take advantage of his smaller size and dart back in again.

"You know what someone I hate once told me?" Darksun said, his eyes almost flashing as he glared at Harry. "He said that distance has no meaning in a fight unless the two are equals. You're wasting your time keeping your distance, you know."

"It's worked so far," Harry replied, eyeing Darksun's much longer limbs carefully and staying on his toes. "Now would you just stop acting like this so we can ta—"

Darksun vanished.

Harry blinked and stared in shock for a bare moment, just long enough to register the sword's sudden disappearance from his vision, when he felt something hard and heavy connect with his back. The world tilted, and before Harry knew quite what was happening, he was laying on his front in the tall brown grass with both arms twisted and pinned behind him and Darksun's knee digging into his spine. Harry sputtered and kicked, but stopped when his shoulders started to twinge from the motion.

"Are you done yet?"

Harry twisted his head around so that he could almost see Darksun out of the corner of his eye.

"No."

The pressure on his back increased a little before relenting again.

"Stubborn, idiot kid."

"If we're essentially the same thing, what does that make you?"

"Che. At least I didn't try to pry into peoples' past. That's private, Harry. Don't push it."

"I don't care about that. I told you, I already felt everything and heard everything! There's nothing for you to tell me, so I don't want you to. Maybe I'd like to know just how my spirit blade had a mother and used to be a little kid, but more than that, what I _want_ is for you to quit being scared of me knowing and go back to being the Dark who yelled at me in a fight for not wanting to say your release phrase!"

The weight suddenly vanished from Harry's back, as did the hand pinning his wrists. Harry quickly levered himself upright, turning to properly face the sword, who had stepped back a bit and folded his arms across his chest in a closed, protective gesture.

"I'm not scared of you knowing anything," Darksun protested, though it rang slightly false to Harry's ears. "It's got nothing to do with that. I have my reasons, though."

"Explain them, then," Harry said, more than a little fed up with the cold shoulders and strained conversations of the past month. The stress of the dementor attack and the realization that he was experiencing two sets of memories at once had pushed him far enough that he was ready to push right back.

"Not now."

"Okay, then I'll come back tonight, before I go to sleep."

"Maybe not ever," Darksun amended, glaring hard at Harry, who glared stubbornly right back.

"I was told that a spirit blade and a reaper are supposed to trust each other."

"And what if I'm not trustworthy?"

"I think I can judge that myself, thanks."

"Really? And what's your verdict?"

Harry simply stood up and walked straight up to Darksun, well within reach should the blade suddenly decide to punch, kick, or draw his sword. Harry planted himself there, crossed his arms, and glared, knowing that his spirit blade understood the point as he had immediately turned his head away with that sharp sound of near-derision he used.

"And what about you?"

Darksun turned his eyes back to Harry, raising a brow in question.

"You don't trust me, do you?"

"It's not that," Darksun replied grudgingly. "You're not a bad kid. It's something…else. Look, could you just go now? Seriously. It's been a few minutes, and I don't know for sure how much time passes outside when you're in here. It's always been a bit confusing for me, the way that works."

"Fine, but we're still talking tonight."

"Persistent. I hate people who pry."

"I won't," Harry promised, uncrossing his arms and relaxing at last to stand casually, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Let's just talk about anything, like we used to. You can even complain about Crookshanks if you really want, just as long as you're yourself again, and as long as you promise that, someday soon, you'll tell me why you've been ignoring me this last month. Okay?"

Darksun also finally relaxed a bit, though not as thoroughly as Harry. "You're not giving up on this, are you?"

"Nope."

"And I take it this means you also know how to get down here on your own?"

"Yep."

The tall sword sighed hard, running a hand across his closed eyes and into his spiky orange hair.

"Fine. I give up. Have it your way. Not like I can stop you, in that case."

Harry grinned, and then yelped in surprise as Darksun suddenly drove forward with an elbow to his gut that doubled him over. Before Harry could regain his wind or retaliate, the sword had slung him over his shoulder like a sack of produce and leapt into the air.

"You let your guard down," the sword said calmly. Harry, gasping for breath, glared at empty air until it was replaced by darkness and, eventually, the feel of being in his own mind again.

_Not fair_, he finally muttered, and he thought he maybe, just maybe, heard a short, distorted chuckle before Darksun faded back again.

* * *

McGonagall was waiting for him in the Entrance Hall.

"Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, this way, please."

Ron looked at them in surprise, but Harry could only shrug helplessly and step clear of the crowd as it swept his friend away into the Great Hall. He truly didn't know what the problem could be, as he didn't think he'd done anything wrong on the train. Nothing that would warrant a chat with his Head of House, at least.

They were led into an empty classroom nearby, and Harry's worry was quickly cut short by the appearance of Madam Pomfrey.

"Potter! Not you again, what have you been up to this time?"

"Dementors," McGonagall answered for him, and the two witches shared a dark look.

"I'm fine now," Harry protested immediately, but Pomfrey was already at his side, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand and peering hard into his eyes.

"Of course you aren't," she muttered, "those brainless incompetents at the ministry…dementors around _children_, and I don't care that Black is on the loose! Does any part of you feel numb in any way, particularly fingers or toes?"

"No, I'm—"

"Breathing all right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you—oh, sorry, you were saying, 'but…' something?"

Harry was grateful for the break in questions.

"But why just me and Hermione? Those dementors passed loads of people on the train, and Ron was in the compartment as well."

"Hmm? Oh, Miss Granger isn't here for a check-up, and Professor Lupin sent a message forward saying that _you_ had fainted briefly."

"Didn't faint," Harry muttered, though he knew it was useless. From what he had gathered before they finally reached the station, some time had, indeed, passed while he argued and fought with Darksun inside his mind – just enough that he was deeply unconscious for a minute at least. He had noticed that Lupin gave him a slightly larger piece of chocolate than the others afterward.

"Well, you seem well enough for the time being," Madame Pomfrey admitted, perhaps a bit reluctantly, "though I think it might be best if you spent the night in the hospital wing. Have you any chocolate on your person?"

"Professor Lupin already gave us some," Harry replied.

"Did he, now? Well, good, we finally have a professor who knows his remedies. Now, are you quite sure that you're feeling all right?"

Harry nodded as vibrantly as he could manage.

"Positive," he replied.

Pomfrey hummed and stared at him hard before nodding back.

"Very well, then. You may be off, but if you start feeling faint at any point in the night or evening, I want you straight down to the Hospital wing. Clear?"

"Clear," Harry agreed, though he had no intention of willingly setting foot anywhere near the Hospital wing if he could help it.

"You may return to the feast, in that case," McGonagall said, waving him toward the door. "I must speak with Miss Granger still, so you needn't wait for her. Thank you, Poppy."

Harry left the room wondering what McGonagall needed with Hermione, though he thought that she would tell him, and Ron, later on when they had some privacy, so he soon put the question out of mind. Instead, he focused on not feeling terribly inconspicuous when he slipped into the Great Hall after the rest of the students had already arrived and jogged off down the table in search of Ron.

"What'd she want?" the redhead whispered when Harry found him and slid onto the space he had saved.

"Pomfrey."

"Oh," Ron said, and Harry was glad he understood. From what Malfoy had been shouting as they left the carriages and entered the castle, rumors of his collapse had already started to spread, and Harry wasn't about to try for encouraging them.

"You missed the sorting. Where's Hermione?" Ron asked. Harry was about to open his mouth to answer when someone else did it for him.

"I'm right here."

The curly-haired girl dropped onto the bench on Ron's other side. She was wearing a very pleased expression, but before either Harry or Ron could ask about it, Dumbledore stood up to speak.

It was short, and, at least at first, not nearly as interesting as Dumbledore's speeches usually tended to be. There were no interesting words or twinkling jokes; his message, once everything boiled down, was simple and direct: Do not mess with the dementors. Then, as though feeling that a bit of a gloom had settled over the hall from his words, Dumbledore moved on to introduce two new teachers – Professor Lupin, whom Harry had met briefly on the train, and Hagrid.

The cheering, particularly from the Gryffindor table, was immense. Hagrid beamed from the front of the Hall – he could not have looked happier if Dumbledore had just presented him with his very own pet dragon.

"A biting book," Ron shouted over the noise, even as he continued clapping, "He set us a _biting book_. We should've known it was him!"

The applause continued for some time; Dumbledore had to motion with his hands to get the students to quiet down again.

"Now that business is done with," he said cheerfully, "let us eat!"

Food appeared, and all dug in happily.

"Sho H'rmi'ne," Ron said through a mouthful of potatoes, "Wh'd M'gon'gall n'd?"

"That's disgusting, Ronald. Swallow first."

He did, so impatiently that he nearly choked.

"I said, what did McGonagall need?"

"Nothing much. It was just something about my schedule this year; I _am_ taking a few extra classes, and so I needed to straighten a few things out," Hermione answered.

Harry could distinctly remember Hermione signing up for every single elective Hogwarts offered when they were given the forms last year; based on that memory, 'a few extra classes' seemed an understatement to him. It was like saying that Darksun's hair was 'a tad bright' or that his sword form was a bit on the sharpish side.

"Better you than me," Ron said easily, and Harry chuckled softly into his cup of pumpkin juice.

Then his good mood was quickly ruined; looking up, he happened to glance across the hall only to see Malfoy perform an overdramatic swoon in the midst of a laughing crowd of Slytherins. Harry immediately felt annoyed and a little disappointed; the whole school was sure to know that he had 'fainted' on the train when the dementors boarded it. The teasing and comments were sure to be nearly unbearable for the next day or two.

"_Little punk. He's got no right to talk; I bet I could make him do that for real just by _looking_ at him_," an echoing voice mused in the back of his mind. It startled Harry a little at first, then he immediately felt satisfied, amused, and far more comfortable at the same time. Darksun hadn't made his usual commentary on the world outside for the last month – his complaint about Crookshanks on the train hardly counted, as Harry had sort of prompted it – and hearing him do so again suggested that maybe, just maybe, things were going back to normal.

_You probably could. With those tattoos and the scowl, you have a pretty scary face, and that's not even counting the skull thing on your shoulder._

"_Wait…what tattoos?_"

That pulled Harry up short.

_You don't know?_

"_I never got any tattoos in my life! That wasn't my thing. Plus, it'd just be asking for trouble."_

_Oh. Uh…skin markings, then?_

"…_dammitall, I've never wanted a mirror so bad…_"

_I could describe them,_ Harry suggested.

"_Later. You've already zoned out._"

Harry immediately jerked himself upright, his head having slowly drooped toward his chest. Hermione nudged his shoulder and looked at him in concern.

"Harry, are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, "just sort of tired. Long day, you know?"

Ron leaned over. "It's not because of the…?"

"I'm _fine_," Harry insisted, his stomach sinking a little. The last thing he needed was his own friends believing that he had fainted – even less did he need a friend who knew Pomfrey wanted him to the hospital wing if he started to get off-kilter and was likely to drag him there herself. "_Really_."

Across the hall, Draco did an encore performance. This time, however, both Ron and Hermione noticed the direction of Harry's gaze when he glared.

"That git. Wish I could hex him," Ron growled.

"Ignore him, Harry. It'll be forgotten in no time. You're _sure_ you're all right?"

Harry gave Hermione a weary, exasperated look, and she finally backed off.

"All right, I'm just making certain. You _do_ have a habit of denying when you're hurt…"

Thankfully, their concern for Harry's wellbeing was not mentioned again that night. Harry and Ron talked about Gryffindor's chances at winning the Quidditch Cup for once while Hermione tried to get them to discuss their classes and what they expected of them, and it seemed a very short time later that the feast was over and the three of them ran up to congratulate Hagrid. The huge man thanked them and then promptly buried his face in the tablecloth, sobbing with sheer joy.

Then it was off to the Gryffindor common room, getting the new password (_Fortuna Major_, much to Neville's dismay), and preparing for their first night back in the dormitories. As Harry drew the deep red curtains around his bed, he felt the comfortable feeling of being home wash over him, draining away any lingering dream-like sensation that being in the real world had given him.

It was good to be back.

Harry settled back on his pillows with a smile. He could easily go straight to sleep right then and there, but he had something else to do first. Finally conscious of the way into his inner world, he plunged deep into the dark place inside himself, falling out of his body and into his own mind.

Time for another chat with Darksun, though this time Harry hoped to avoid the sparring.

* * *

The plain was silent when Harry stepped onto it, and Darksun was nowhere in sight. It wasn't hard to find him, however, as there was really only one place he could be. Harry walked over to the base of the tree and peered up; sure enough, he could see the edges of a black-clad form topped with orange hair laying along one of the wider, lower branches. The spirit blade seemed to be ignoring his reaper, but Harry knew better than to think he was totally unaware of his approach or presence. Instead of speaking right away, however, the young wizard merely used the force of his aura to jump up, catch another branch, and swing himself up onto it, settling himself comfortably in the nook where branch met trunk. The moment he was situated, Darksun spoke.

"Did you know the weather in this place responds to your moods?"

Harry was glad Darksun had started; he wasn't sure what he could say that definitely wouldn't be seen as 'prying.'

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah. If you're angry, or frustrated beyond anything, it gets windy. Not much, most of the time, so it's not too bad. But when you're scared as hell, the sun starts to sink."

Harry remembered falling into his inner world during the dementor attack that same afternoon. He remembered finding it pitch-black, and he remembered that the sun only rose when the danger had passed and, with it, the fear those things drew out.

"This place of yours…it doesn't have a moon. No stars, either. When the sun goes out, that's it, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I've not been afraid of the dark for _years_. The only problem I have is…not being sure if that sunlight is going to come back or not."

Harry wasn't sure what to say, and he wondered if perhaps he'd been a bit hasty in demanding, earlier, that Darksun talk to him again. Complaining about Crookshanks he could handle. A discussion about a sword strike or how to correct the way he formed a fist was easy. Fears of the dark and loss of sunlight and the turning of his inner world according to his _emotions_…that was difficult. Harry didn't talk about deep stuff like that, and he hadn't expected Darksun to do so. He really hoped that his blade had a point somewhere in there, a real, solid purpose to his choice of subject, because otherwise, Harry would just feel uncomfortable.

"It's how I knew something was wrong last month…in the first attack," Darksun continued after the pause made it clear that Harry wasn't going to respond right away. He sounded hesitant and spoke a little more slowly than usual, as though he was trying out words in his mind before letting them out. "The sun in here just suddenly _dropped_. For a second, I thought something'd happened and you were dying out there."

"Sorry," Harry said quietly, still at a loss as to how he was supposed to react. He saw Darksun sit halfway up on the branch to scowl at him.

"Sorry? I told you not to apologize. It's pointless; what's done is done, and there's nothing we can do about what happened before. Instead, focus on keeping it from happening again."

Harry thought of the primal fear that rose in him every time he felt the aura of the dementors, how the memories rose in his mind unbidden, dragging every single terrible emotion up along with them, and how helpless he was to stop those memories from weakening him. If those things were hollows – and they felt like it – it was Harry's job to purify them if at all possible. If those things were going to attack him purposefully and, by doing so, put his friends in danger as well, then Harry had no _choice _but to learn anything that might cancel their powers and fight them off. He looked at his sword with determination. _This_ sort of conversation he could do.

"How? You know a way?"

Darksun fell back onto the branch and hooked his hands behind his head.

"Not exactly," he said, staring up at the thick canopy of green leaves above him, "but I can guess where to look first. When those things unbalanced you and you fell in here, I managed to hold onto your mind for a moment longer, and I saw that older guy – your new teacher – use some sort of spell. It was silver, I think, and the dementors actually flinched. He knows some magic that can drive them off, maybe even hurt them."

Harry immediately started to think.

"I don't know when my first Defense class is," he said aloud, "but when I do have it, maybe I could ask him afterwards about that spell. If I at least get the name, I could ask Hermione or maybe try to search the library myself."

"You, in the _library_?" Darksun joked, "Man, you really _are_ determined."

Harry grinned at Darksun in response.

"That's good," the sword said, more seriously than before. "Hold onto that determination. Resolve is what's important in a battle, any battle. When you learn that spell, don't cast it because you're afraid of being beat by the dementors. Cast it to _beat them_. You understand the difference?"

Harry nodded. He felt that he understood perfectly, and though he knew it probably wasn't as easy as Darksun made it sound, it was something he would definitely learn to do if it might help. His spiritual aura attracted dementors, and since that was the case, he simply had no choice but to learn how to defeat them, if not for his own sake than for the sakes of those near him.

After a long moment of companionable silence, Darksun dragged a hand from beneath his head and rubbed his face with a deeply thoughtful frown.

"Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah, Dark?"

The spirit blade sat up fully on the branch, looking just a little bit worried.

"What was that you said earlier about face tattoos?"

* * *

The first few days of class passed quickly for Harry. Being back at Hogwarts was comfortable; it felt good to be traversing crowded hallways alongside his friends again. Darksun still spent far less time than he used to in the back of Harry's mind – he claimed only that he had his reasons and, no, he wasn't going to share them – but Harry's descent into his mindscape was promising to become a nightly routine which the young wizard felt almost made up for the distance the sword imposed for most of the day…even if the sword _was_ beginning to insist on ambushing him the moment he appeared for 'practice.'

Aside from his slightly improved relationship with his spirit blade, Harry's classes themselves made life interesting. In his first Divination lesson, for instance, Harry was actually hard-pressed to keep from chuckling when the teacher dramatically proclaimed that "death hangs about you like a black shroud!" and went on to say that between that and the grim in his teacup, it was a wonder he had not already left this world. The irony was only heightened when McGonagall revealed that Trelawney was in the habit of choosing a single student each year and predicting his or her death as a way to start class – what were the chances, really, that she would pick the one student who could technically be considered more-or-less dead already?

Care of Magical Creatures, on the other hand, was a complete disaster, thanks to Malfoy and his complete inability to listen to Hagrid's instructions. Harry didn't think that hippogriffs were so bad – proud, yes, but easy enough to get along with and really rather harmless as long as you made that allowance. They were better than what Hagrid _might_ have come up with for a first lesson. He had to admit that he was worried for his friend and the hippogriff – Malfoy had been swaggering about with his arm in a sling since Potions that morning, acting as though he was still in pain and loudly proclaiming that his father, who had quite a lot of influence at the Ministry didn't-you-know, would see Hagrid sacked for his incompetence. Harry wondered at least twice during that class whether or not hexing Malfoy outright would be worth the certain detention.

In the end, however, he managed to restrain himself, and soon it was time for Defense Against the Dark Arts, the class he had been looking forward to all week.

"Wands out, books away, and follow me," was one of the first instructions Lupin gave, and Harry felt his interest in the class itself pique. That sort of order was a rare one in his experience with Defense; Quirrel had acted too timid and Lockhart was just too incompetent and self-absorbed to teach anything useful. His hopes that they learn something useful for once rose even higher when Lupin drove off Peeves with a strange spell that shot gum up the poltergeist's nose.

Then they reached the staff-room, and Lupin waved them all inside. Harry looked around in interest – it was long with paneled-wood walls, an old-looking wardrobe in one corner, and a large number of mismatched chairs scattered throughout. The only other person inside was Snape, who watched them file in with a raised eyebrow. When Lupin made to shut the door behind them, Snape stood up abruptly and swept forward.

"Leave it open, Lupin; I'd rather not witness this," he said nastily. Darksun, who had been sitting on the level of Harry's conscious mind ever since his wielder had expressed great interest in what might happen in the class, shared a quiet thought with Harry that amounted to "_good riddance_." The Potions professor's condescending and openly biased attitude grated on him terribly.

"Just to give fair warning," the dark professor sneered when he reached the doorway, "this class contains Neville Longbottom. Do not entrust him with anything that requires any level of competency unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear."

Neville's face flamed in embarrassment. Harry glared hard at Snape, Darksun glaring with an equal intensity at the surface of his mind. The man did _not_ need to bully Neville in front of other teachers, especially before the teacher had any inkling of Neville's true character himself.

Professor Lupin, however, merely raised his eyebrows and replied in a bland, easy manner, as if Snape had advised him, on a perfectly sunny day, not to forget his raincoat.

"I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage, and I'm sure he will do admirably."

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched upward slightly in relief and victory, but Darksun continued to glare. Neville's face burned a deeper red than before, if possible. Snape broke his eyes from Lupin to sweep them over the students, particularly Neville, before stopping abruptly upon Harry.

"_Wasn't he leaving?_" Darksun grumbled, the force of his glare still smoldering behind Harry's own eyes. Snape blinked and a little crease appeared between his eyebrows as though he was puzzled about something, eyeing Harry carefully. Suddenly, he whirled about and left, shutting the door with a snap. All in all, hardly more than five seconds had passed since Lupin's announcement.

"Now, then," Lupin said, clapping his hands once for attention and beckoning the students toward the wardrobe in the corner. As they drew near, the bulky piece of furniture suddenly shuddered and wobbled, banging against the wall. A few people squeaked and jumped back in alarm.

"No need to worry," the professor said calmly, "it's just a boggart in there."

Harry noticed that some of his classmates felt that this was something to worry over. He didn't recognize the term himself, but Neville looked terrified and Seamus apprehensive. Looking at the rattling doorknob, Harry rubbed his thumb over the smooth wood of his wand and reached forward with his senses.

Darkness. Not a hollow aura, thank goodness, but it was also nothing human. Not quite animal, either, but something he couldn't define. It kept slipping over itself in thin, gauzy layers, impossible to catch and hold still. It didn't feel malicious, but there was something about it that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end. He could feel Darksun in his mind, watching with a sense of holding his breath. For a moment, Harry almost thought he was gripping the hilt of his sword instead of just a wand – he was ready to fight.

"The first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?"

"_Pay attention, Harry. Know what the enemy is,_" Darksun instructed. Harry managed to keep himself from nodding.

"It's a shape-shifter," Hermione replied. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us the most."

That explained the indefinable aura, as well as the frightening feel to it.

"Precisely, Miss Granger. I couldn't have put it better myself," Lupin replied. "The boggart sitting in the darkness has not yet assumed a form. No one knows what a boggart looks like when it is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us fears. This means that we have a huge advantage over it. Have you spotted it, Harry?"

He turned to Darksun for help, but sensed the sword shaking his head.

"_Think it out yourself_."

Harry did, and he thought he hit on something.

"Because…because there's so many of us, it won't know what form to take?"

"Exactly," Lupin replied. Hermione, who had been bouncing on her toes with one arm in the air the entire time, settled down with a disappointed huff. "It's best to have companions when facing a boggart. He becomes confused, and it's rather difficult to terrify two people at once. Usually the result isn't remotely frightening.

"Now, the spell that repels a boggart is simple, yet requires force of mind. What really finishes a boggart off is _laughter_. You have to force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. The incantation is this: _riddikulus._ "

The class intoned the spell again together. Harry had to wonder, for just an instant, what the incantation would be for a corresponding deathspell. Probably something long, pseudo-poetic, and…well…

"_Ridiculous," _Darksun said dryly. "_And if I hear one more person mutter a pun to that effect in this room…_"

_You'll use my body to kick them across the head? I hope not,_ Harry replied, mostly as a joke. To his surprise, Darksun almost immediately withdrew to the furthest corners of his mind – not all the way down into the core of his soul, but definitely away from the forefront of his thoughts.

_Dark?_

He didn't answer. Harry frowned, but before he could pursue the matter, a great shout of laughter and a particularly terrific bang of the wardrobe against the wall interrupted his thoughts; he seemed to have missed something interesting.

"If Neville is successful," Lupin was saying, "the boggart is likely to turn his attention to each of us in turn. Take a moment now and think of what scares you the most, as well as how to make it comical…"

Harry didn't have to think; he knew what frightened him the most, what made the sun in his inner world plunge below the horizon and sink his soul into darkness. The aura of a hollow mixed with ice and warped into something completely unlike any other hollow he had sensed before filled his memory, mixing with dead voices and the terror of children who suddenly lost their mothers.

_How to make a dementor funny, how to make a dementor funny…_

His mind was blank, however, stuck only on black folds of fabric and glistening rotted hands. He shuddered and thought harder, to no avail.

"Everyone ready?"

No, but everyone else was nodding and rolling up their sleeves, and Harry didn't want to ask for more time. He fingered his wand and thought of the spell; simply using a sword would be so much easier. That option wasn't available now.

_How do you make a dementor less frightening?_

Lupin was calling everyone to back away, to give Neville a clear shot for the first attempt. Harry was thinking hard as he backed off with his classmates, but nothing occurred to him as being even remotely funny. Nothing he imagined could douse the sheer terror that a dementor inspired.

_Dark, can you…?_

The spirit blade crept forward in his mind to help. At that very instant, Lupin pointed his wand at the handle of the wardrobe and counted to three. Sparks shot out from the wandtip and the door burst open. Snape stepped out, startling and distracting Harry for a moment – didn't he leave, how was he back? – until he realized that this was the form of Neville's boggart. Poor Neville was stumbling backward, mouthing something but seemingly unable to get his vocal cords to work right. Snape advanced, reaching into his robes menacingly…

"R-r-riddikulus!"

With a loud snap that made Harry jump and grip his wand tighter, Snape stumbled. Instead of robes, he was wearing a long dress and a frankly hilarious hat topped with a moth-eaten stuffed vulture. A huge red handbag was swinging from one arm. Harry couldn't stop himself from laughing, forgetting for a moment his own predicament until Darksun drew his mind back to it.

"_Girl's clothing, girl's clothing! Put the dementor in a dress!"_

"Parvati! Forward!"

The boggart's aura tensed, pulled inward, and with another snapping noise it became a blood-stained mummy. Harry focused inward, trying hard to construct a dress in his mind. It wasn't working very well; he had never paid much attention to Aunt Petunia's flowery dresses, so any details were lost on him, and it was very, very hard to picture the things on a dementor's black-robed form, probably because he had no idea what the dementor looked like underneath the robes – and he didn't want to.

"Riddikulus!" Parvati cried, and Seamus was called forward next.

_It's not working_! Harry cried in frustration. The robes in his mind kept getting in the way, superimposing themselves over any fuzzy, half-remembered dress of his aunts he could dream up.

"_Then make the robes work for you! Turn them white…cardboard angel wings and a halo, like a little kid's Halloween costume!_"

The cracking noise of the boggart's transformation was distracting. As much as Harry tried, he couldn't get an image to stick. The high speed of the class and the rising emotions made adrenaline pulse through Harry; he wanted to rush forward and stick a sword through the threat, not hang back and try to turn a dementor into a kid-sized angel…kid-sized?

"_That's right, shrink it…focus, Harry, focus. We're getting there…_"

"It's confused! We're getting there," Lupin called, the echo of his words with Darksun's startling Harry, though this time he managed to keep hold of the solidifying image of a midget dementor in angel wings…

_Its aura. I need to change its aura, too. _

"Dean!"

There was the snap of a mousetrap.

"Excellent! Ron, you next!"

Harry had it at last. Finally ready, he raised his wand and waited tensely for his turn, watching the boggart turn into a huge spider for Ron.

"Riddikulus!" Ron shouted, and the spider's legs vanished. The hairy body bounced on the floor, rolling towards Harry. Lavender Brown squealed and got out of its way, and it halted just before Harry's feet. He focused, felt the aura of the boggart focus on him in return. It almost seemed to pause, confused, and the sense of another aura filled the room, one that was crisp, cool, feminine, unfamiliar to Harry. In barely an instant, the aura spiked as though in pain before vanishing utterly, and Darksun gasped and choked back a sound in Harry's mind. He didn't have time to ask his sword what was wrong, however, as the boggart had just started to pull its aura inward, preparing to shift its shape, and Harry had to focus on the image in his mind and the spell in his mouth to cast it the moment the dementor appeared…

"Here!" Shouted Lupin suddenly, rushing forward with his wand raised. The boggart turned its attention to him, judging the older man a greater threat, and the legless spider vanished in a _crack_. Harry looked around wildly, searching for it, before he finally noticed a silvery orb floating in front of Lupin, who cast the spell almost lazily. The boggart turned into a cockroach and fell to the floor, little legs wiggling in the air.

"Forward, Neville, and finish him off!"

Then the boggart-Snape was back, and this time Neville rushed forward with determination blazing in his face.

"Riddikulus!"

Snape was back in the lacy dress again, but only for a split second – Neville let out a great laugh, and the boggart finally exploded, vanishing into wisps of smoke. The class broke into applause, but Harry couldn't bring himself to join in. He lowered his wand in something like shock, relief at not having to face even a boggart dementor crashing against disappointment and a slight sense of shame with the fact that he didn't even get to make an attempt.

"Excellent!" Lupin cried, "Excellent job, Neville. Five points to every person who tackled the boggart – ten for Neville for doing it twice – and five each to Hermione and Harry for answering my questions at the beginning of class. Very well, anyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, read the chapter on Boggarts and summarize it for me, to be handed in on Monday. That will be all."

The class filed out, chatting excitedly, but Harry hung back. He had to wave Ron and Hermione on, but otherwise his classmates' spirits were still far too high to care that one of them was being left behind. He waited uncertainly by the door; Lupin was busy straightening a couple of chairs that had been knocked askew by excited or frightened thirteen-year-olds. When the general chatter of people had dispersed at last, the professor looked up mildly.

"Yes, Harry? Is something wrong?"

"Well, not exactly _wrong_, I guess," Harry said, just now realizing that he had no idea how he was going to ask for help with his dementor problem. It didn't help that the feeling that Lupin had deliberately protected him from the boggart had also filled him with questions. "I was just wondering something…"

Lupin sighed.

"I suppose it has something to do with the boggart and my actions?"

"No, actually," he replied, surprising himself as well as Lupin, it seemed. "I mean, I was sort of wondering about that, too, but it's not the main reason I stayed back."

"Ah," Lupin said, curious now. "Then what would the reason be?"

Harry thought hard about how to put what he had to say in the right order.

"The dementors…on the train. I saw you do something that…made them leave. What was that spell?"

"The Patronus? It's a very difficult charm, well beyond N.E.W.T-level. You could almost call it condensed happiness in the form of a protector."

"Patronus," Harry repeated with a firm nod. "Thanks, professor Lupin."

"You aren't going to attempt it, are you?"

Harry shrugged self-consciously. "I think I have to. Those things…affect me badly. And I don't think I can avoid them forever if they're going to be at Hogwarts this year, so…"

Lupin was giving him a firm look.

"I hope you aren't planning anything foolish, Harry."

"Like sneaking out? No. I'm perfectly happy to leave them alone, it's just that they don't seem to agree."

"Hmm."

Lupin was fingering a seam on the back of a stuffed armchair, staring at it thoughtfully. Harry, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable since this was technically the staff-room and he still a student, began to move toward the door.

"The patronus charm," Lupin said suddenly, stopping Harry's movements, "is not the sort of thing you can learn from a book. It's immensely difficult and becomes even more so when you are in the presence of a dementor. If you would like, I am willing to coach you in that charm."

This was more than Harry had expected.

"Really?"

Lupin nodded.

"Consider it a way to apologize for my apparent doubt in your abilities today. To explain myself, I didn't distract that boggart because I thought you couldn't handle it. I simply expected that a resurrected Voldemort would incite too much of a panic among the class."

"Voldemort?"

"The boggart."

Harry frowned and shook his head. Voldemort hadn't even crossed his mind.

"I don't think it would've been him," he said quietly. "I think it would've been a dementor."

Lupin looked honestly surprised, perhaps even impressed.

"Well," he said slowly. "It seems I underestimated you. A dementor? That suggests that what you fear most is fear itself. Very wise, Harry."

"Er…thanks?"

"That does open up a possibility in practicing the patronus charm, though. It would be too much of a risk to bring a real dementor into the school, but if I can locate a boggart as a replacement…"

Lupin trailed off in thought before nodding decisively.

"I shall speak to Dumbledore about this. If he allows it and when I locate a suitable boggart for our use, I will speak with you again. You may read up on the Patronus charm in the meantime, but don't expect much to come of practicing it for now. I'm no expert at fighting dementors – those three on the train were a struggle themselves – but I'll teach you what I can. Is that acceptable?"

"Definitely," Harry said, feeling a little dazed at his luck. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm glad I could help," Lupin replied. He looked as though he was going to say something further, but stopped himself then and motioned Harry out.

_That went…amazingly well_, Harry thought, exiting into the empty corridor and turning in the direction of the Defense classroom to gather his bag and books.

"_Yeah_," Darksun agreed quietly. _"It really did. Great job, Harry. Looks like we might've found a way to beat those things back._"

Feeling fairly pleased with himself, Harry ran the rest of the way to the classroom.

* * *

Over a month passed before Harry got any word from Professor Lupin about the proposed dementor-repelling lessons. Dumbledore, it seemed, had agreed to the idea right away, but finding another boggart in Hogwarts was a much harder task than it might have seemed. In addition, Lupin had become ill for a few days at the very end of September, so even if he had come across the creature necessary, they would not have been able to meet right away.

Despite this setback and the impatience he (and Darksun) sometimes felt, Harry felt overall that time had passed fairly quickly. Defense against the Dark Arts was amazingly enjoyable – Lupin made sure to balance reading and written work with practical lessons and spell casting. Darksun tended to avoid lingering at the surface level of Harry's mind in most of his classes, citing boredom, but when it came to Defense Harry had a spirit blade looking over his figurative shoulder every lesson.

After finishing the unit on boggarts, they had moved on to red caps, and then kappas. The evening after that particular lesson, Darksun had finally admitted something Harry had been wondering: he was Japanese in origin. The surprise of finding out that the mythical kappa of his former culture was actually a real, though magical, creature had prompted that revelation. Darksun didn't seem to understand himself just how an English reaper got attached to a Japanese spirit blade, nor was he willing to explain how a sword could possibly have a nationality. Harry, pleased to have been told that much, didn't press him, though the suspicion that Darksun had perhaps been a normal human being once was rising steadily in him.

If Defense was enjoyable, however, Harry had come to dread Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Trelawney's death predictions were amusing at first, but soon Harry found himself wishing she would pick another victim and get on with it already. The way her magnified eyes filled with tears whenever she looked at him got on his nerves. In addition, certain of his classmates seemed quite taken with her and had started to speak to Harry in hushed, soothing voices, the way one speaks to an old, feeble person on his deathbed. As for Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid had lost his inspiration and confidence, it seemed, and so the class had spent lesson after lesson poking strips of lettuce down the slimy throats of flobberworms, which had to be the most boring things in existence. Touchy and prideful though they were, Harry honestly wished they could have continued with the hippogriffs.

And then, of course, there was Potions. Harry had never liked that class, but this year Snape seemed to be in rare form. He appeared to absolutely loathe Lupin to a much greater extent than any other Defense professor before him, and the story of the dress-wearing boggart, which had spread across the Hogwarts rumor mill by breakfast the day after it occurred, probably didn't help matters. Snape was an absolute beast to poor Neville each potions class, including the other Gryffindors as an afterthought. He also tended to throw Harry strange, calculating looks at random times. They made Harry nervous; he had no idea what he could have done to prompt that sort of attention. Darksun, who had proclaimed a special dislike for Potions class early on, usually retreated into the center of Harry's very soul during that period, so he wasn't there to offer any input on Snape's odd behavior.

So it was that between his classes, a furious training regimen of Quidditch practice devised by Wood, and spending time with his friends – who were quarrelling more often than normal now that Crookshanks had made numerous attempts on Scabbers' life – Harry felt that relatively little time had passed between their first Defense lesson and his short talk with Lupin and mid-October, when the first Hogsmeade weekend was announced as being on Halloween and the Defense professor approached Harry with a time for their first dementor lesson: the evening before that day.

"I would've offered it the day of Halloween," Lupin explained, "but the Headmaster told me that you had a certain project to do that day, so I thought it best to shift it back a little."

"Thanks, professor," Harry said, knowing that the 'project' Dumbledore had mentioned was merely his promised trip to visit the Center again. It would be odd, going back again, but Harry looked forward to it enough that the disappointment of missing out on Hogsmeade was greatly diminished.

"Have you read up on the Patronus?"

"Yes, I have."

"Good. I shall see you that evening, then."

Harry left the classroom that day feeling nothing but excitement for the coming lessons. When the day itself came, however, and Harry stood inside an old, unused room which Lupin had set aside, he was a touch more anxious about what was to come.

"_Resolve._"

Harry took a deep breath and worked on pushing his anxiety back. He didn't quite understand the emphasis Darksun placed on this 'resolve,' but he had to admit that it often made a certain sense. If he doubted himself, he would almost certainly fail. If he was sure of himself…he could still fail, but maybe it wasn't quite as certain a thing.

His ears caught the sound of footsteps approaching, and the door swung open just as he looked over. Lupin entered with a large trunk floating in front of him. The door closed on its own; the trunk drifted over to the large desk at the front of the room and settled down softly.

"Are you ready, Harry?"

He gripped his wand.

"Yes."

"Let's hear you say the spell, just once to get a feel for it."

"_Expecto Patronum_."

Harry had focused on happiness, as the book said, but not a wisp of silver rose from his wand. He was a little disappointed; happiness wasn't an easy thing to focus on, and the book's description of the spell had done him as little good as Lupin implied.

"Good – you pronounced it correctly. Tell me, what do you think of?"

"Er…the book just said 'happiness...'"

"A little vague. Instead, try to focus on the happiest memory you can. Take your time."

Harry searched his mind, lighting upon the first time he had called Darksun's name in the Chamber of Secrets. It wasn't necessarily happy, but the moment had filled him with such powerful contentment that he felt this should count. Nodding, he raised his wand in preparation. Lupin tapped the lock on the front of the trunk and stood back quickly.

A dementor stepped from the trunk, gliding through the air like a ghost. It regarded Harry from beneath its shadowy hood, cocking its head in a very undementor-like, confused gesture. The room was filled with the icy cold aura of a Hollow, but as Darksun stirred in Harry's mind, ready to lend him whatever support he could, a little of the aura changed, becoming that crisp female sort of feeling that Harry had sensed when he faced the first boggart. Again, the feminine aura rose as though in pain, fighting, struggling, and again it died suddenly, leaving profound emptiness behind. Darksun flinched and dove back into the recesses of Harry's mind.

"_It's sensing me,_" he said quickly as the boggart-dementor regained its far more sinister aura. "_I can't help you – it interferes_."

Harry paused. He had almost been counting on Darksun's aid, and now that the voices were beginning to rise again from his memories, he wished he could have it.

_I understand_, he replied quickly, raising his wand and fixing his mind instead on the memory of Darksun and hearing his name.

"Expecto patronum," he chanted. "Expecto patronum, expecto patronum, expecto patronum…"

The dementor advanced. Harry stumbled back, and the memory wavered. Darksun's echoing voice was replaced by that of a desperate, crying woman, begging for the life of her son. Harry gritted his teeth and tried again.

"Expe – expecto patronum!"

Nothing. The dementor swept forward, all ice and terror and screaming, sobbing memories, and Harry's vision was fading.

"Enough!"

Lupin leapt forward, sweeping his wand up with a cry, and the boggart turned into a silvery orb again, which Lupin forced by magic back into the trunk. Breathing deeply, he turned to Harry in concern.

"Are you all right?"

Harry nodded, also gasping. His grip on his wand tightened.

"If you've had enough for tonight, then –"

"No. No, I'm fine. I just need…a better memory, that's all."

Nothing happy occurred in the Chamber of Secrets, not even the discovery of his reaper powers. Harry needed something else, something better. He was determined to find it. Raising his eyes to Lupin, he let them fill up with every ounce of that resolve Darksun swore by.

"Let me try again."

Lupin paused, then nodded slowly and held his wand to the lock of the trunk again.

"Prepare yourself, then."

The trunk's lid swung open, and the dementor emerged once again. Harry faced it, determined to win this fight. Time and again he was frozen, terrified, driven back to the edge of collapse; time and again Lupin revived him, offered to let him off for the night; time and again Harry insisted on trying just once more.

An hour later, Harry produced a fine silver mist. It was not a true patronus, but it was enough to stop the dementor, and once it had been packed back into the trunk, Remus gave his pupil a proud, weary smile.

"Well done, Harry…well done."


	6. Chapter 6

Two months had passed since their second encounter with dementors – two months since Harry's attempt at getting Darksun back into the habit of hanging about in his mind rather than hiding in his soul. And while Darksun did not appreciate Harry's prodding, he had to admire the boy's tenacity, as well as his ability to stand up to the sword despite being so _short_. As a result, Darksun caved a little…just a little. He spent more time on the level of consciousness and soon fell back into his custom of giving Harry advice and commentary on the world outside. Harry noticed this and it seemed to make him happy enough, as he hadn't pried into Darksun's reasons for withdrawing in the first place yet, but the sword himself still felt a strong measure of unease. It was tempting, being on that level of his wielder's mind: he could see the world through his eyes, hear it through his ears, feel it through his limbs, and remember clearly,_ hungrily_, what it was like when it was his _own_ eyes, ears, and limbs doing all of that. What it was like to be in the world rather than watching it second-hand, unable to interact with it as he wanted to.

He had to be careful with himself. Just a week ago, while Harry sat in the Gryffindor Common Room working on some homework, Darksun had caught sight, out of the fuzzy corner of Harry's vision, of a book teetering on the very edge of the table, about to fall. In subconscious reflex, he had twitched toward the part of Harry's mind that would control his left hand, meaning to reach out and catch the book. Realizing suddenly what he was about to do – for something so trivial, so meaningless, and completely without Harry's permission or even prior warning – he had caught himself short. Harry sensed his changes in focus and snatched the wobbling text back onto the table himself, thinking all the while that Darksun's twitches had merely been to get his attention without words. He had thanked Darksun, and for an instant the sword had sorely wanted to tell him the truth, to tell him that he really didn't deserve to be thanked. Instead, he complained of how boring this all was, and he'd be in Harry's soul if he was needed, okay? See ya, bye.

Seriously, how was he supposed to break that subject with his wielder? _Hey, Harry, guess what? I used to be half-hollow. Yeah. And now I really want to take over your body because that's what a hollow in a shinigami's soul would do, and I want to keep it because that's what a shinigami does when he's half-hollow, and even though I'm actually a spirit blade now I just can't help myself. You're okay with that, right?_

Somehow, Darksun couldn't imagine it going over very well. At the very least, it could completely shatter that trust which Harry expressed in him, the trust which his nature as a zanpakuto – a spirit blade – longed for. At the very most, Harry may well decide that Darksun was dangerous, a threat, and go to the reapers to have him sealed away. Darksun didn't _think_ that sort of response was in Harry's character, but then again, the kid had never been faced with a situation quite like this one before. What he would or would not do if he discovered the truth of his own sword was beyond the realm of Darksun's imagination. He'd rather not risk finding out. Therefore, his choice was obvious: he would simply continue to keep himself in check. He would not take control of Harry's body for anything, if that's what it took. Life would go on as normal.

It was often difficult, but for the past two months he had managed just fine, just as he had managed to keep Harry from asking questions about his past or his memories. All he really had to do was act normal and continue to speak with Harry, teaching him anything he could think of through words and actions. Simple enough, right?

Sometimes, it actually seemed so.

* * *

England's Soul Society was an interesting thing to see from the air, if one had the wings necessary to do so. The countryside was in exactly the same shape as Earth's own England, long and blocky and surrounded on all sides by grey ocean. Unlike modern England, however, it was largely untouched by human civilization: thick forests and wild moors dominated the landscape, broken only by small, tangled settlements and the occasional village nestled in the curve of a river. The single largest spot of humanity was the Center and the surrounding Ring itself.

As the names suggested, this sprawling complex was roughly circular in shape. The entire city was situated with the round building of the Council at its hub, the headquarters of the Reapers arrayed around it, and the Ring fanning outwards from that point.

It was the Ring itself that made the entire mass slightly lopsided, because while the sectors closest to the Center seemed carefully arranged and planned, as one looked outward, further and further away from the solid core of the small city, things seemed to fall apart slightly. Houses were not arranged in neat rows, streets meandered more freely, and small clumps of humanity formed against the woods and the wilds outside. It was often hard to tell just where the Ring ended and natural land untouched by human souls began; the entire thing seemed to melt into the countryside at the furthest edges.

All told, thousands of souls lived there, existing until it was time to be reborn again on Earth. The inner districts remained largely unchanged, but the outside undulated with the flow of the souls, growing and shrinking as they came and went. It was hard to find anything or anyone in the Ring, the air was so thick with spirit particles and the populace so prone to change.

But _they_ were not looking for just anyone, and they knew exactly where he should be. The only questions were when he would appear and whether they would recognize him when he did.

_They_ were two figures of roughly equal height, dressed in long, loose robes – one dark green, the other royal blue – and hidden under hooded black cloaks. The green-robed one carried a nondescript, average-length sword on his right hip, while the blue-robed figure had a falchion sheathed horizontally across the small of her back. They passed quickly through the outer areas of the Ring, pressing toward the Center, alternately ignored or avoided by the souls they passed. After all, the two of them had walked these streets every day in the same direction at approximately the same time for the past month. They were nothing those living in the area had not seen before.

Though they were headed toward the Center, the pair stopped well before reaching it, ducking into a side alley somewhere between the orderly section of the Ring and the chaotic edges. Once they were certain they were alone, they finally spoke.

"Is he here?"

It was a man's voice, rising from under the dark hood of the green-robed figure. The other tilted her head as though listening for something.

"I don't know…no, not yet."

"He has to come back sometime…"

"Maybe he won't. We don't know for certain. Or maybe the rumors weren't true at all."

"No, they were real. Had to be – even his _name_…"

The woman suddenly hissed, her head jerking about to face the Center excitedly. The man started, stepping forward in sudden hope.

"Did you-?"

"Yes, it's him. _He's here_."

They stood together, staring at a blank wall as though they could see through it and finally lay eyes upon the presence that they had searched for every day in the last month, and that they had finally found, recognizing it through pure, animal instinct, even though they had never truly felt it in this manner before. The woman reached for the man's hand; he squeezed it, having no words to share his hope, joy, and slight fear.

He was here.

_But_, both of them suddenly realized, _now what_?

* * *

"_Overhead from the left!_"

Harry pivoted quickly on his heel and raised his double-edged blade in a horizontal guard position. The impact of steel against steel rang out loudly and made the leather-wrapped hilt vibrate heavily in his hands. Harry flexed his fingers quickly to make sure he could still feel them, then rotated slightly, sliding to one side and tilting his blade downwards. The other sword slid off of the parry, was drawn back, and then immediately thrust forward again, forcing Harry to skip backward several paces.

"_He was open for a second – you could've had him there! Watch more carefully._"

_I'm trying,_ Harry countered, eyeing his opponent as they circled each other warily on the packed earth of the sparring area. Like Harry, the young man wore a light grey shirt with elbow-length sleeves and darker grey pants, and like Harry's sword, his was coated in a faint silvery aura – a deathspell, the third seal: blunt. Unlike Harry, the older boy was blonde-haired and brown-eyed, stockily built, coatless and carrying a broadsword with a blade the width of his palm.

It was the size and shape of that sword, Harry realized then, that had created the opening Darksun was complaining about. Broadswords simply weren't made for the rapid back-and-forth movement of a stab, especially against an opponent smaller and faster than yourself, and especially at such close quarters. The trainee – Walter by name – was strong enough to wield the larger sword with some ease, but the thrust had been a mistake…or it would have been, had Harry caught on immediately.

Walter got tired of waiting first. With a faint grunt, he rushed forward, dropping his blade to one side. Harry recognized the movement as one the trainee had made several times before in his initial attacks and set himself to block it.

"_No!_ _Don't just block_—"

Too late. The blades connected with a loud clang. Despite being smaller than the other boy, Harry raised his aura, dug his feet into the ground, and did not budge, trying to read his opponent's body position and listen to Darksun's instructions at the same time.

"_If you recognize a move, respond to it differently! He's done that charging side-sweep three times – four now – and you've blocked it the same way every single time. You know that move, so get creative with it and do something he won't expect._"

Harry's nod was lost in a sudden lurch as Walter suddenly withdrew the steady pressure against his blade, turning in a tight spin –

"_His back! Get his—_"

Which brought the broadsword around toward the other side of Harry's head faster than he could think. He ducked almost purely on instinct, feeling the heavy length of steel pass over the crown of his head. Their blades' edges might be sealed with a deathspell, but it didn't do anything for their weight. Getting a concussion was not high on Harry's to-do list at the moment.

"_Attack! NOW!"_

Harry repressed the urge to jump from the force of the frustrated shout inside his mind; instead, he immediately drove his sword upwards across Walter's body, which had been left open and slightly unbalanced from the force of the spin and sword swing. The blade connected solidly, silver aura flaring out as the deathspell worked to protect Walter from the sword's edge. The older boy grunted, staggered, and let his sword's tip touch the ground as he relaxed with a grin.

"Ah, dang, you got me," he said with good nature, though it sounded a little forced. Harry supposed that being beaten in a spar by someone a foot shorter, several stones lighter, and many, many years younger than you could be a bit embarrassing.

Clapping caught Harry's attention, and he turned slightly to regard the small group of trainees – perhaps about ten or twelve all told – standing on the sidelines. With them was the chief of the Alcyone squad – a tall, powerfully built man with short dark hair, piercing grey eyes, and a broadsword across his back – and Snuffles. The former of the two simply watched the pair on the field with an unreadable expression, and the latter was wagging his tail madly, though he remained seated behind the white line drawn across the ground.

"Thanks for sparring," Harry said, turning his attention back to Walter. He flicked away the seal on his sword with a thought – low-level deathspells were often easy to undo or negate as long as you were the one who cast them – and sheathed it. His right hand now free, he held it out to shake. Walter sheathed his own blade at his side and grasped Harry's hand firmly.

"Same to you," he said. "You're really good, actually."

"_Just wait until you get better,_" Darksun put in, though only one other person there could hear him. On the outside, Harry nodded again to Walter and wandered back over to the side to watch as two of the other Alcyone trainees – a young girl and another teenage boy – begin their own sparring session at their leader and teacher's indication.

_Okay, Dark,_ Harry thought, his eyes distant as he focused inwards, _what do I fix?_

"_Keep a better eye out for weaknesses. Also, I noticed you were trying to match his fighting style out there. Don't. Adjust to it, but don't copy it. You're not built for strength, Harry; you're one for speed. Take advantage of that, even if it doesn't seem fair to you against a slower opponent._"

Darksun had a point. This was just a spar, yes, but a hollow wasn't going to care about being fair or not, and Harry was really practicing for those. Still, it was a lot easier to take advantage of a monster's faults than those of another human being. For that matter, it was easier to take advantage of _Darksun's_ rare openings than the trainees' – the sword certainly beat Harry often enough when they sparred inside his mindscape that Harry could feel absolutely no guilt at a sneaky sidekick or two.

_I'll remember that. Thanks,_ Harry said in reply, watching the trainees practice. The boy seemed to be losing despite his superior height and the difference between the lengths of their blades – his was a fairly standard sword, while the girl wielded only a knife.

"_Look at them. Tell me what you see._"

Harry studied the pair for several long moments.

_She – I think her name was Sarah? – she's dancing around a lot. Keeping her distance mostly, just going in and out to attack. _

"_Anything else?_"

…_stabbing. She stabs a lot. Mostly at his ribs and stomach; I don't think she can reach any higher. She's quick._

"_And the other guy?_"

_Paul? He…he uses a lot of circular blocks and parries. He's staying in one spot; he barely moves his feet at all._

Both of them fell silent, watching as the dance continued, becoming almost repetitive with clashing steel and shuffling steps. Harry noticed more; though Paul rarely moved position, his defense was incredibly quick and strong, so he hardly _had_ to dodge to avoid Sarah's knife. However, his lack of motion meant that he was waiting for the girl to draw within range, and she was quick enough that by the time that happened, he was already being forced to parry a blow – he never managed to attack.

On the other hand, Sarah's constant movement seemed to be tiring her. At first, her darting motions had been rapid, falling one after the other from different angles. Now, after only a minute of fighting, she was spending more time circling Paul just outside of his sword's reach than diving into it, though when she did attack, it was just as quickly as it had been earlier.

"_Who do you think will win?_"

Harry shrugged.

_Depends, doesn't it? Whoever makes a mistake first loses, and that can happen to either one._

"_And if neither one makes a fatal mistake? If they keep to the same levels of skill?_"

…_Paul. Paul's going to win. Sarah's tiring out. She can't last much longer._

"_I disagree_."

Harry frowned, puzzled. Just as he was about to reply, however, Sarah suddenly stopped circling and dodged forward again. Paul swept his blade down and across his body to parry the blow, but to the surprise of both the boy and the watchers, the expected clang of steel on steel never came. A look of horror passed briefly over Paul's face and he stumbled back, but too late; Sarah had already darted even further forward, her knife darting out and pressing point-first against his chest, silver light flaring around it. By the time Harry's mind caught up with his eyes, it was over.

_She…feinted?_

He thought over what he had seen again. Sarah attacking, and as Paul swung to block, the girl drawing her knife back from its initial thrust before the sword struck it. She had faked the first blow, forcing Paul open, and followed up immediately with a second.

_How did you guess?_

"_He never attacked. His face, his eyes…couldn't you see? He didn't intend to hit, and he didn't intend to win. He lost before he started, because he couldn't see her as an opponent to defeat. Intent…resolve…it's the same sort of thing._"

_But surely just wanting to win isn't enough…_

"_No, but it's the base of victory. As long as skill is close enough to equal, and as long as nothing interferes, the end of the fight will be determined by intent. If the guy wanted to win, even a little, then you're right: he would have. He had the skill for it, more than the girl did. His heart just wasn't in that fight at all. Remember that._"

Two more trainees were called forward to fight. Harry watched them go, pondering Darksun's words. They made sense, though mostly from an outside point of view. Harry didn't think he would ever be able to pick up on this 'intent' thing in his own fights. It was hard enough keeping track of an opponent's basic body movements, let alone the subtle qualities of their attack and defense that Darksun seemed able to pick out without thought. Still, if his sword believed it was important, then…

…_I'll try._

"_Good. Now, look at these two…_"

Harry observed three more sparring matches, trying each time to note everything he possibly could about each student-fighter: their starting stance, their aggression, their defense, their favored patterns of attack and foot movements, their control, _everything_. It was harder than it seemed; the subjects of his scrutiny changed positions and shifted stances quickly, and he was no master warrior that he could tell the habitual from the experimental. By the time the third set finished up, however, Harry felt as though he was finally getting the basic idea of reading other fighters down.

Then, instead of calling up a new pair, Chief Storm looked up at the sky and stepped forward into the ring himself.

"Stay put," he said to his students, and every head perked up in interest, Harry following suit simply because this was something rather new, insofar as his knowledge went. He couldn't begin to guess just what Storm was doing, though; he had never really had a conversation with the man, though he had met him briefly during his summer stay and seen him a few times at a distance during that same month. This trainee practice session he had been casually invited to join was probably the longest period of time he had spent in the Alcyone Chief's presence to date. As a result, Harry had very little clues to the man's character except vague first impressions such as '_stoic,_' '_tough,' 'strict,' _and perhaps '_hard-to-please_.'

It was, therefore, a bit of a surprise when the Chief singled Harry out.

"Potter," he said evenly, "you have your sword's initial release already, correct?"

"Er…yes, sir."

"Good. Sit tight while I talk to these guys."

Harry nodded quickly, wondering just what his sword's release had to do with anything.

"You all know the very basics of what a sword release is by now, or at least you should. If you've forgotten, it's not my problem. Do your homework on your own time. At any rate, I won't be explaining the basic bit to you. Instead, I'm going to show you a little bit about _types_ of sword releases. Pay attention. This explanation won't be coming from me again."

The class murmured agreement, shuffling noises arising as people shifted for a better view or for a more comfortable standing position.

"Potter. Front and center."

Suddenly feeling very, very nervous, Harry moved forward into the fighting ring to stand opposite Storm. The Chief made a whirling motion with one hand and pointed toward the class; hesitantly, Harry turned to face them, wishing he knew just what was happening.

"Harry Potter," Chief Storm said, stating his name as a fact rather than an address. "From what I've heard, his release is an elemental type, or at least deathspell-based. It has a mid-length release phrase and at least two commanded special attacks or forms. It takes the form of a long, single-edged blade suited for physical combat. Correct me if I'm wrong."

Harry was confused.

"Er, no…I _think_ that's about right."

Storm paused, turned to face Harry fully, and eyed him as though Harry was something strange he had been handed and he wasn't quite sure what to do with him.

"…Don't tell me you don't know your own sword, kid."

"I do! It's just…what's a commanded attack?"

"You're as clueless as this lot? Oh, for…All right, fine. You'll just have to pay attention to the lecture as we go. Draw."

With that, Storm reached back over his shoulder and withdrew the broadsword hanging there. It was much bigger than Walter's had been, with a shining dual edges and a black hilt: simple, unadorned, but well-shaped and obviously very powerful. With a sense of foreboding – did this guy seriously expect him to _fight_ with him? – Harry pulled Darksun's sealed form from the sheath at his side. The longsword in his hand looked like an overly-shiny stick in comparison, despite the power he knew it housed.

"Release," Storm said. It was an order, not a request. Harry complied.

"Rise from death's shadow, Dark Sun," he said, the words flowing more easily than they would have if he'd been asked to release in front of all these people just a few months ago. He swept the sword down to his right side, holding it pointed toward the ground at an angle. His red aura flared slightly, and with a crackle of flame, the longsword in his grip shifted shape. Harry started to lift it into a guard position, but Storm held up one hand in a gesture to hold.

"Mid-length release phrase," he said, addressing the class. "Some releases are longer, practically a line of poetry or a deathspell incantation; others may be as few as two words…or even one."

Suddenly, he swung his broadsword up over his head. Harry felt his aura building in him and knew what was going to happen before it did.

"Trample, Six Hoofs!"

With a sudden flash of deep blue-violet light, Storm brought the sword down, but as it fell it ceased to be a sword. Instead, a large war hammer with a black shaft and a dark grey head struck the packed earth before the man, making the ground fairly tremble under the impact. In another instant, he was holding it up across his body with both hands on the shaft, adjusting to the weight and form of the weapon with natural ease.

"Single word release command," he said to the class in the dry tone of a teacher who had given the lesson far too many times. "Quite a lot of blades fall under this category. Convenient, because it can be easier to say in the middle of a fight if you need to release right then. I warn you now, though; don't garble the phrase or the sword's name when you do learn it. Some spirit blades can be testy about how you call them out."

Storm spun the hammer quickly in his hands as he continued to speak to his students.

"Now, my Six Hoofs is a _physical_ spirit blade. That is, it doesn't control an element or allow me to direct deathspells through it. It does, of course, have its own special attacks that make use of the magic around, but its chief purpose is to, simply put, make me much stronger and a bit faster than usual. Got that? _Physical_.

"Harry's…Dark Sun, was it? Dark Sun is an _elemental_ spirit blade. It controls and makes use of fire in its attacks and he could probably cast spells _through_ the sword, but any physical enhancements – speed or strength – that it gives Harry are minimal.

"Neither of us have one of these, but some spirit blades can have a deathspell-based release. These don't control elements or give physical enhancements; instead, they cause other effects, like making an enemy fall asleep, or hear things that don't exist, or binding them without the use of an actual deathspell.

"Everyone understand? 'Cause if you don't, you might want to consider a change in occupation right now."

Harry nodded along with the others. This seemed simple enough so far, though he'd never thought to experiment with casting a deathspell through Dark Sun as though he was a wand. He'd have to give it a try sometime.

"All right, special treat now. Anyone here know the tenth defensive or the twenty-first?"

Paul raised his hand. After a moment, so did Walter and a tall young woman named Eve.

"Tenth," Paul said, while the other two claimed knowledge of both spells.

"Right," Storm said. "You, Whitson –" meaning Paul – "cast _glass dome_ now, and if it breaks or fades, I want one or both of _you_ –" he pointed at Walter and Eve – "to immediately cast _negating wind_ on the whole group. Potter and I are going to give a demonstration of what a spar between two unsealed blades might look like."

"Wait, we're _what_?" Harry demanded, his attention snapping immediately to Storm, but the man ignored him as Paul started the deathspell's chant. Harry eyed the massive hammer in the Chief's hands, imagining for an instant what it would be like to get hit with the thing and then spending a good bit of effort trying in vain to _un_-imagine it.

Storm must have caught sight of the expression on Harry's face, because he turned to face the boy with a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Calm down, kid," he said. "It's not a death-match, and I'm not coming at you full-powered. Davies'd try to kill me if I did, and when he failed, Hawthorne would succeed. So get your feet under you and let's go. The fight ends if you can mark me."

The group on the sidelines, including a rather anxious Snuffles, was by then fully encased in a clear half-bubble of spiritual energy made solid. They seemed eager for the fight to start; if Harry had to guess, he'd say that watching a released duel was a rarity, though he didn't know whether it was in general or just for the new recruits.

"_Don't be so nervous,_" Darksun said, one part reassuring, another part strangely excited. "_You'll be fine. Just attack and show him what we can do!_"

Harry took a slow, shaky breath and settled into a ready stance, gripping the hilt of his sword in both hands. He watched Storm carefully, observing as the larger, older, stronger man settled into a deep stance – _for extra hitting power, though his feet are too planted to dodge quickly,_ Harry observed – and held the large war hammer at the ready in a position which would allow him to swing it for an immediate attack or raise the shaft for a quick block.

The hammer enhanced his strength, Harry remembered, and Storm looked plenty strong to begin with. Any direct strike could be devastating to Harry's body; he could easily believe that thing was capable of not just breaking a bone, but crushing it. Blocking strikes would also be difficult. Harry decided right then and there to dodge everything he could, act quickly, and attack as much as possible from a distance.

"Come at me, kid. You get the first strike," Storm offered. Harry nodded mutely in response and shifted to make sure he had a solid footing. Before he could second-guess himself, Harry charged forward, sweeping his sword to his right as he did so, preparing to swing it across his body to the left. Storm began to tilt his hammer so that the shaft could block the expected blow.

Then, in the last few moments, Harry gathered his aura and jumped. He rose high above the Chief, saw the dark head tilting back to follow his movement, and pressed his power into his blade, swinging it across his body even though Storm wasn't anywhere near being inside the sword's reach.

"Flare!"

A thin line of fire shot forward like an arrow, leaping from the sword's point at the center of the swing. Faster than Harry expected, Storm maneuvered his hammer so that the attack struck the weapon's head rather than his face. Never slowing down for an instant, Harry darted through the air at a distance, swinging his dark sword several more times, thin lines of flame leaping from its tip more and more rapidly until he was firing five shots along an arc with a single swing. Despite his efforts, however, Storm blocked every attack, orange and yellow sparks flying around him and his hammer as he did so.

"Command-based special attacks!" he shouted to the group nearby, swiping his hammer through the air to destroy the latest volley, "Rather than shouting the _name_ of the technique to release it, this type uses _commands_ to do so. Usually much shorter that way!"

Then, without warning, the Chief dodged a flare instead of blocking it, leaping toward Harry an instant later. The young wizard paused a moment too long in surprise, and the man was suddenly above him, hammer swinging down toward his left side.

Steel cracked against steel, and Harry found himself hurtling toward the dusty earth so quickly that he barely had time to raise his aura before impact. The ground shook and clouds of dust rose into the sky. Storm himself dropped to the ground nearby, landing neatly on his feet and gazing expectantly at the dust-cloud before him. Inside the barrier nearby, Sirius was barking wildly and leaping at the inside of the dome, frantic to the point of mindlessness. Three of the training reapers were trying their hardest to hold him back, while the others stared at the place Harry had disappeared, all but holding their breath.

Suddenly, red light burst out from the core of the cloud, driving the dust away and causing some of the trainees, even behind the protective barrier, to flinch from its intensity. Harry stood in the center of a new crater in the ground, hunched over slightly – his back felt like one big bruise – and glared indignantly at Storm.

"I thought we _weren't_ trying to kill each other!"

"We aren't. Reapers are supposed to be durable enough to take a beating, especially if they've reached the level of an initial release. And it seems like you _are_ just about strong enough to do so; you look fine to me."

"My back sort of disagrees right now," Harry snapped. Normally he might have been more polite, but he was in some pain and also happened to be rather angry with himself for blocking instead of dodging.

"Tough. Get out of that hole now – we aren't done yet. You can visit a medic _after _our spar."

"_Our only chance,"_ Darksun suddenly cut in, causing Harry to pause before jumping back up to normal ground level, _"is to overwhelm him. Hard and fast, and don't take your eyes off the guy for a second. Got it?_"

Easier said than done, was Harry's opinion. He'd already tried using his flare attack, and at the moment, that was his sword's only distance ability. Storm had blocked every shot. He had to get a bit more creative.

"I'm not gonna wait, so _out_," Storm ordered suddenly, mistaking Harry's pause as hesitation. "Either you walk yourself to the healers after this is over or someone carries you there. Up to you."

"Coming, I'm coming," Harry said, climbing up the side of the shallow impact crater as he spoke. The moment he was back on level with Storm, he pointed his sword at the man and spoke quickly.

"First seal: quiet ropes!"

It worked; the spell ran down Darksun's blade perfectly. Storm's arms and legs snapped together in a straight line, the hammer he held in one hand tilted uselessly toward the ground. His eyes showed surprise, and he swayed on the spot, miraculously managing to keep his balance even with the abrupt, forced change in posture. Harry didn't hesitate a second, gripping his sword's hilt in both hands and keeping it pointed directly at his opponent's chest.

"Flare!"

The thin streak of flame was fast, but Storm managed to be faster. Purposefully tilting his body off-balance, he let gravity take him down, landing on his side as the flare shot harmlessly over him. In another instant, he broke through Harry's binding seal and rolled to his feet, looking almost vaguely impressed.

"Not ba—"

Harry immediately shot another flare without the command, forcing Storm to stop speaking and block. Even before that attack connected with his guard, Harry was dodging sideways, shooting more streaks of fire, keeping an eye on Storm's movements as he swung the hammer about himself, knocking the shots away with the hammer's head and blocking them with the shaft. There had to be a hole there, a weak spot, an opening, and he had to find it before Storm decided to take advantage of _his_. Nothing stuck out, though, and at any moment he could get tired of just defending and attack again. Time to change things up a little.

Behind the next distance attack he shot, Harry followed, charging forward and watching Storm as he blocked, looking for that opening…

Then, in the space of a blink, Storm's entire body blurred and vanished.

Harry stumbled in shock, his head jerking around as he strained every sense he had to find out where the Chief had gone, and _he was behind him-!_

"_HERE!_"

Before Harry could think another thought or make another move, his limbs had vanished from his control. He felt his body tense and then leap to the side, landing and rolling across his still-aching back and turning to face Storm and the hammer that had struck the earth where he had been standing a moment before, and though Harry still controlled his eyes, his hearing, his face, and his voice, everything else was, at the moment, Darksun's.

_Thanks_, Harry said, relieved. _Okay, now I'll just—_

His body settled into a stance, raising the sword with both hands and tensing, ready to attack or defend at a moment's notice.

_Dark! What're you doing?_

"_What does it look like? I can take this guy, don't worry. It'll be over in no time."_

Darksun was tugging at the remains of Harry's control, gently, as though reminding Harry that he might need things like his vision and the like. Harry dug mental anchors in and protested.

_No! Darksun, don't – this is my fight!_

"_It's just a spar. Not like it's anything that really matters."_

_Exactly! I'm not gonna die or anything, so let me do this. Let me practice, let me get stronger myself!_

Outside, Storm was hefting his hammer up again, saying something along the lines of "nice reflexes," but Harry couldn't bring himself to care much about him at the moment. He pushed at Darksun, at first just nudging him, then shoving when the sword didn't seem inclined to move.

_Let. Me. OUT!_

He felt a momentary surge of tangled emotion from Darksun – shock, anger, fear, disgust – and heard a sharp intake of breath before he abruptly found himself back in complete control of his body, panting slightly.

"_Sorry_," Darksun whispered, and then he was gone, vanishing back into the depths of Harry's soul. The boy closed his eyes for a moment, feeling off-balance. When he felt a little more centered, he re-opened them…

And found Storm directly before him, swinging the hammer across at the level of Harry's shoulders. There was no time to dodge or duck; Harry raised his sword quickly and abruptly found himself airborne, hurtling away across the ground. Acting quickly and without thought, the young wizard flipped himself over and dug his left hand and feet into the spirit bits in the air, slowing himself down to drop unharmed to solid ground again.

"Potter! What was that?"

Harry's mind went blank.

"Er…"

"_Do not_ zone out or freeze up in the middle of battle! I don't care that this is a spar and that I promised not to kill you, that kind of behavior is unacceptable. Seriously, what's the point of letting you stick around and call yourself a reaper if you're going to make mistakes like that? You'll be dead the moment you face a hollow that's stronger than average!"

"Sorry," Harry said reflexively. "It won't happen again."

"I hope not," Storm retorted, heaving the hammer over one shoulder and glaring, "but in light of that, I'm changing the rules a bit. The fight ends when you mark me, _or when you can't move any more_. Do that again, and we'll end up with the latter. Got me?"

Harry nodded fervently.

"Good. Now, dammitall, help me show these newbies a _real_ fight between two reapers."

With that, Chief Storm attacked.

For several more minutes they fought, and though Harry knew that the leader of Alcyone squad was holding back tremendously, he still found himself hard-pressed to keep up. Openings in Storm's guard happened only sporadically, and were always gone by the time Harry realized them and tried to attack. His offense was brutally powerful; at one point, only the desperate act of infusing his bones with his own aura saved Harry from a broken arm, and now he had what felt like a rather nasty bruise in that spot as well as in others. A cut across Harry's cheek and temple was still oozing blood – this was the mark of a surprising swing of Storm's in which he struck out with the spiked butt of the hammer rather than the head. Had Darksun been present, he probably would have told Harry off for not realizing the spike's potential in a fight earlier.

Harry, for his part, had run, dodged, and leaped, changing directions on a knut, firing flares off one after another when he was at a distance, swinging with abandon at Storm when he was up close, and trying his hardest to intersperse his sword attacks with deathspells. Unfortunately, Storm was fast enough to block the flares, strong enough to brush off Harry's melee attacks, and the deathspells tended to lose quite a lot of power when they were cast without incantations. That wasn't even mentioning the fact that Harry only knew the first three seals and five attacks, which were hardly the strongest weapons against a reaper Chief anyhow.

He had yet to mark Storm, and Harry was growing tired enough that the second criteria for ending the fight – his own inability to move – seemed to be coming closer and closer to fact. Storm, on the other hand, was still fresh enough that he could give their audience small pieces of advice and information about sword releases from time to time, usually while Harry panted off to one side, righting himself from another attack and trying to decide what he would do next.

It was during one of these instances that Storm did his vanishing trick again, blurring away from Harry's immediate line of vision, as he had done four or five times before in their spar. Harry was picking up on it, though; each time, it became a little more clear, both to Harry's eyes and to the senses he picked up through his aura, just what Storm was doing. He wasn't apparating, as Harry had first suspected, nor was he even technically vanishing at all. Instead, he was running – running so fast that he seemed to disappear. After the third time, Harry managed to track his moving aura and notice the slight changes in it that signaled the start and the duration of the run. After the fourth, he could follow a vague black-and-yellow blur with his eyes and dodge accordingly.

Now, he thought he was ready to respond in kind. As Storm shifted into the beginning of his blurred run, Harry tried to imitate the man's actions with his own power, and was rewarded briefly with the sensation of the world – and Storm, to a certain extent – slowing down around him. Harry spun about – his opponent was going around him again – extending his sword to catch Storm before he could attack this time. His control of the technique, whatever it was, was shaky, though. Time seemed to move in flickers, so that in one instant everything was slowed and Storm, while still blurry about the edges, was at least solid in the middle as he moved, and in the next everything else was moving at the same pace as Harry and Storm had crossed most of the remaining distance between them in three rapid heartbeats.

Then, all at once, metal crashed against metal, and everything was moving at exactly the same speed again. Storm was standing before Harry, holding his hammer in a vertical position, and Harry's blade was vibrating slightly against its black shaft.

"Was that your first flash step?" Storm asked. Harry nodded in reply, not recognizing the term but realizing that it could only be the…whatever he had just done. Storm's eyebrows rose a fraction.

"Well. Not bad for a first, actually. Not good, but not bad. You pick it up just now?"

"Er…yeah."

With a quick thrust, Storm disengaged their weapons. Harry immediately jumped back to avoid any follow-up swings, but the older man seemed content enough to _not_ attack him immediately.

"Sharp senses," Storm complimented in a level tone, "though you've got a way to go in hitting power and fighting technique. Now, could we hurry up and finish this? These guys get to go on patrol soon, and at this rate they'll be late."

Harry responded with the fifth offensive: light spear – the highest one he knew – which Storm batted away with a quick laugh. With that, their fight continued, and Harry was determined to finish it himself.

To do that, though, he needed to change something up a bit.

His ranged attacks weren't doing anything. Perhaps they were too slow; perhaps Storm, with his enhanced physical abilities, was simply too fast. Either way, the man proved again and again that he could block every distance shot, deathspell or otherwise, that Harry used on him. Binding spells also couldn't hold him long enough for a distance strike to work properly.

If Harry wanted to mark Storm, it would have to be with his blade itself, and that would mean moving within the hammer's range and risking being flattened. He honestly expected to become a Harry pancake on the ground, but there was nothing else for it…

Harry leapt to one side, sweeping his sword around to send four pulses of flame at Storm. He dodged to the other, advancing slightly as he did so, and shot some more flares. He threw himself further, rolling across the ground, and shot from a third direction altogether as he came up again. Then, moving as quickly as he could, even tapping into that flash stepping ability – which he realized that he desperately needed to practice – he ducked around to Storm's left side – the side furthest from the hammer's head at the moment, though it was admittedly nearest the spike – and darted forward, his sword glowing red-hot as he advanced. Storm turned his head as he saw Harry coming, his hammer's spiked end rising to block or jab, but Harry didn't let himself hesitate or doubt for an instant. Instead, he put on one last burst of speed, sweeping his sword up and across as he did so, half-shouting another command.

"Blaze!"

Darksun's blade burst abruptly into flames. Storm realized he couldn't block fast enough and dodged backward instead, though not before the tip of Harry's burning sword cut through the black coat, setting fire to it at the same instant. Storm clamped his arm down across the cut fabric, smothering the flames, and raised the hammer in one hand to block Harry's immediate return swing.

"Hold!" he shouted. Harry backed off cautiously, knowing that if he had failed this time, he likely wouldn't get another chance.

Storm planted his hammer head-down on the ground, the shaft leaning against his shoulder, and bent his head over his side, parting the cut in the fabric with his fingers. Whatever he saw made him huff. Without another word, he grabbed the shaft of his hammer and sealed it back into its broadsword state.

"No blood," he said, sheathing the blade, "but I suppose a small burn counts well enough. Good fight, kid, but next time, I'll expect a lot better from you. Understand?"

Harry stretched his back out, feeling sore (though admittedly less so than when he had first landed on it), and thought that this 'next time' would be a long, long while in the future. It was pretty obvious to him that if the Alcyone Chief hadn't held back as much as he did, Harry would've been crushed within the first thirty seconds of the spar…if he lasted even that long.

Harry sealed Dark Sun and sheathed the longsword at his side, barely paying any attention to his surroundings. Therefore, it was a surprise when something big, black, wiggly, and furry suddenly hit him in the chest, driving him backwards to the ground, and immediately began to slobber up his face.

"Gak! Ugh, Snuff—Snuffles, off! Snuffles!"

The dog didn't seem inclined to obey right away. He kept whimpering and nosing spots on Harry's arms and shoulders that had been bruised and licking the side of his face that didn't have the cut on it – that, he also nosed, but made no attempt to 'help' Harry by cleaning up the blood streaked below and around it.

"Snuffles, I'm fine! They're just bruises, so no big deal. Get off, you're-OW!"

Snuffles backed away immediately, jerking his paw from the bruised spot as though _he_ had been the one to feel the twinge of pain. The overzealous dog stayed practically on top of Harry's heels all the way back to the training group. As he looked over them, Harry caught sight of someone who hadn't been there before: Thane Lowry, Storm's deputy. He lifted a hand in a small wave, and Thane waved back briefly before turning his attention back to whatever Storm was saying at the moment.

Though Harry didn't know Storm well, he had met and spoken with Thane before, and while the Alcyone deputy wasn't as openly friendly as Ron or as outspoken as Hermione, he was nice enough that he and Harry got along fairly well. It probably helped that, even though he was technically around sixty years of age, Thane had the appearance of a twelve-year-old, making it easy for them to see each other as around the same age. Small, quiet, and somewhat bookish in appearance with his mousy brown hair and thin-framed glasses, Thane was about as different from his big, gruff, hard-hitting Chief as a person could be. From time to time, Harry had to wonder how the two managed to run an entire squad between themselves without mishap.

Harry hung back slightly as Chief Storm finished his address to the reaper students. The group split into two parts. One, headed by Storm himself, walked off across the training grounds immediately, while the other, following Thane like so many lost ducklings – a funny sight, considering the black-coated deputy was half the height of the tallest in the group and only a generous inch taller than Sarah, the shortest – over to Harry.

"I saw the end of that fight," Thane said, skipping a greeting entirely. "Not bad. Chief Storm doesn't usually bring flash steps into an example bout like that."

"So he's done that sort of thing before? Spar with someone new, I mean."

Thane hummed softly in agreement and started to walk away across the grounds toward the wide dirt road that ran across the Center. He motioned Harry to follow, so the young wizard did, aware of the now much smaller group of students and one big black dog tagging along behind the both of them.

"It's one of his favorite ways to end a training class. Pull out someone who shows promise and push them as far as he can. Do you have anything you need to be doing right now?"

"Er…no, I don't think so," Harry replied, racking his brain briefly and not remembering having made any plans. "Why?"

"Just wondering if you'd like to come and see a bit of what a reaper does besides kill hollows and send earth-bound souls on."

Harry looked at the northeast gate, which they were currently headed towards. He shrugged; it's not as though he had anything else to do.

"Sure."

* * *

Despite having spent a month in the Soul Society, Harry had only been in the Ring once, and that once was his brief hospital stay followed by a short walk directly to the Center, escorted by the Asterope deputy. Somehow, between learning new things and meeting new people, the Center itself kept him busy enough that he often forgot – or perhaps didn't even realize – that there was an entire city full of human souls outside of those walls. And like any city, and any group of humans, it had its good and bad sides, the upstanding citizens and the liars and crooks, the wealthy and the poor and everything in between. Like any city and any group of humans, there was self-created chaos, and there was self-imposed order.

It seemed that the Soul Reapers of England were part of that order.

A reaper's job, Harry reflected wordlessly as he watched Thane jot down notes on a possible theft being reported by the owner of a small candy store, was a bit like what he would expect the police of Earth to be doing…minus the hollow-killing part, of course.

For the past hour, the entire group had been patrolling a section of the Ring which Thane had described as being in a "middling district" – meaning that it was a bit rougher about the edges than what was normal for a class of new trainees, but they should still be fine. After all, it was common knowledge that most of the minor troublemakers and thieves of the afterlife would rather risk tangling with a full-fledged reaper than stick their necks out toward a group of overzealous, slightly hyperactive and certainly over-excited trainee reapers. The single reaper had restraint and would probably down you with a single, relatively painless binding spell after making sure you were the one he was after; the trainees were more likely to full-body tackle you the moment they thought they saw you pick someone's pocket.

Thane had, of course, given everyone strict instructions to stay within his earshot, if not eyesight, listen to his direction and follow it to the letter, and _for goodness' sake, don't draw your blade unless someone's attacking you with one of his own_! Harry could easily imagine where that might become a problem; the sheer excitement sparking off of the group at the start of their first patrol had the effect of heightening his own heartbeat, senses, and adrenaline. These people did not need to be using a sword against anyone unarmed; they probably wouldn't have the restraint necessary to deal with a problem without bloodshed.

They had, admittedly, calmed down as time passed by and nothing particularly exciting happened.

Harry stretched and bit back a yawn as Thane finally closed his tiny notebook, tucking it away inside his black coat – he must have had a pocket sewn in there – and promised the shopkeeper that the problem would be looked in to. Good day, and then they were all moving on.

Thane's prediction about any sort of trouble laying low for the day seemed to be right…or perhaps there just normally wasn't as much chaos as Harry had imagined. Either way, things had been rather quiet. Other than receiving the theft report just minutes ago and escorting a lost pair of children to a building Harry could only compare to a small, fairly shabby police station to await their adoptive parents being found, absolutely nothing of note had occurred.

Harry yawned again, though openly this time, and rested his laced-together hands on the top of his head, meandering along after the reapers with Snuffles trotting beside him. The dog was panting wildly; the October air was cool, but they had been outside in the strong sunlight for a long time, and black fur tended to heat up rather nicely.

"You okay, there, boy?"

Snuffles looked up at Harry and wagged his tail, still panting. Harry smiled down at him before tilting his face toward the sun, half-closing his eyes and following the group by ear and instinct. The smile slid away like rainwater, leaving behind a thoughtful semi-frown.

Something was wrong with Darksun, and it both worried and slightly frightened Harry. Though he had gotten used to the sensation of the sword occasionally controlling a limb or the like before their first visit to the Center, it had still been vaguely unsettling. Then Darksun withdrew entirely, hardly speaking to Harry, rarely spending time on the level of his mind, and almost never sharing control of his body. And now, this.

The last time Harry had struggled for control of his body was the first time Darksun had instinctively taken it, and in that instance the sword backed off the moment Harry made his displeasure known. Just an hour ago, though, Harry had needed to argue and fight before the sword suddenly released him, apologized, and dove back into his soul's center. Darksun hadn't emerged since, and though Harry was trying to avoid speculating about his reasons behind both his behavior during and after the incident, he couldn't help but think about it.

And he couldn't imagine what would make the sword behave that way. It was as though Darksun couldn't decide what he was, in an odd way. Sometimes he acted like a teacher and a mentor. Other times, like now, he could sulk and brood just like the teenager he appeared to be. He seemed to have the instinct and knowledge of a battle-hardened warrior, but he was often so unsure of himself, and Harry still thought that he was afraid of something. He just didn't know what, and Darksun wouldn't tell him anything important about himself. He hated rabbits and cats and sunsets, he liked moonlight and high places and ambushing Harry from time to time for a hand-to-hand spar. All well and good, but it did nothing to tell Harry what the problem between them was, nor how he could hope to fix it.

All Harry could do at the moment was silently promise to pay the sword a visit later, before going to sleep. This situation was beginning to feel too much like the beginning of Darksun's last withdrawing session, and Harry was _not_ going through another month of silence and strained interaction if he could do anything to help it. He also wasn't going to put up with much more refusal to tell him just what was going on – this was his mind, body, and soul, and Darksun was his friend, companion, and sword, and if something was wrong with one or more of those things, Harry definitely wanted to be told.

_No matter what?_ whispered his conscience with dark implication. Harry squashed down that errant thought firmly before it could grow into hard speculation and guesswork. Yes, _no matter what._

Then, abruptly, a shrill shout from ahead broke Harry from his thoughts. He looked up to see Thane and the others already breaking into a run, heading toward the rapidly-rising mass of noise and commotion. Without a thought, Harry took off after them at a dash, Snuffles racing alongside and slightly ahead of him, rapidly catching up to the trainee group and their leader. The noises from ahead, at first just a small number of angry voices yelling, had quickly become a cacophony of pained, wordless shouts, cracks and crashes as things broke, and terrified screaming. The road widened on either side of Harry, suddenly opening into what could have been a market square or something of the like – it was hard to make much out under the dust and around the frantic, struggling press of bodies. Harry froze at the edge of the mass, buffeted as people rushed by him in an effort to escape something that looked like a mass brawl and a stampede all at once. The noise was incredible; he couldn't tell one shout from the next.

Then, suddenly, some fleeing person's elbow accidentally struck him along the back and side, knocking him off balance and into the mess. The next thing Harry knew, he was ducking and dodging limbs, unable to tell if their owners were actually trying to attack him or if they were simply reacting blindly to the chaos. His hand itched for Darksun's hilt, but he held himself back; nobody in the crowd seemed to be seriously armed, and even with his left hand clutching his glasses in place, he was more than capable of blocking or avoiding almost anything that came his way – his blade's training had helped make sure of that.

As suddenly as he had entered the melee, Thane appeared before him, looking unusually livid.

"You!" the slightly smaller boy grabbed Harry's coat with one hand, pointing another in what appeared to be a random direction, given that all the struggling bodies about made it hard to tell one way from another. "Get over there, duck into an alley, wait until this settles – _THOMASSON, YOU MORON, SHEATHE THAT SWORD!_"

Thane vanished again, pressing through the chaos toward someone he could see but Harry couldn't quite make out. His instructions were clear, though; Harry struggled in the direction the young deputy had pointed, still dodging strikes and making an effort to _not_ instinctively retaliate whenever something managed to strike him. At long last, though, his efforts paid off; stumbling from the confused crowd into the open suddenly, Harry found an alleyway and slid into it, standing alongside a number of frightened, yet perhaps slightly curious individuals who had also chosen it as a place to hide and watch the fight. Harry wondered how on earth such a massive brawl could ever have started; was this normal?

Dust rose, and Harry saw someone land a fist across another's jaw, spinning him around and dropping him out of the crowded mass. He winced in sympathy for both the downed man and for Thane, who was probably trying to control both the civilian fighters and his own trainees.

Then, out of nowhere, Harry noticed a strange smell over the scents of sweat, dirt, and blood. It was warm, sweet, and familiar, though he couldn't place it or what it reminded him of. Turning his head with a puzzled frown, Harry inhaled deeply. The scent was rising from deep in the alley, out of place against the backdrop of such a large fight and the crowded darkness of Harry's hiding place. Tapping his fingers against Darksun's sheath, Harry thought about what to do. He was alone; Snuffles had gotten separated from him somewhere in that mob. Thane was trying to do mass crowd control and had already sent him to stay out of the way. That fight might not end anytime soon, and the scent, though it had briefly grown stronger, seemed to be fading now. Harry felt strongly curious about it, too curious to just mention it to someone and hope that they knew what it was.

Decisively, Harry turned and pressed deeper into the alley, following the strange smell and the aura-like sense of it intently. The alley ended when it met another side-street; Harry turned left immediately, walking faster. The street wound about like a snake, weaving between houses and shops and places which might have been inns, and still Harry followed it until he instinctively ducked down yet another alleyway, following this to yet another street, on and on in a zig-zagging, wavering non-pattern until he was hopelessly lost, though he remained somehow uncaring of that fact. The curiosity and vague need to find the source of the strange smell had evolved into a single-minded determination, crowding out all other thought until Harry suddenly turned a corner to find a dead-end alleyway and two people standing in it, hooded and cloaked and facing him. One wore green robes and a sword at his hip; the other wore blue and held a slender chain in one feminine hand. Swinging gently from that chain was something that looked like a broad-bladed short sword with its center cut out, and Harry saw at a glance that this missing center was emitting a soft white smoke which drifted into the air, becoming invisible as it dispersed.

As Harry watched, the odd blade suddenly stopped smoking. His nose and head cleared as it did so, and when the blue figure flipped the blade up into her hand, its form changing into a short, angular, single-edged sword, Harry immediately reached across for Darksun's hilt. To his surprise, however, instead of attacking him or even reacting as though _he_ might attack _her_ (at least, Harry thought it was a her), the blue-robed person merely reached back and slipped the sword into its sheath.

He should run right away, Harry knew. That was how one dealt with strangers who tried to lure you into a dark alley; you ran and found an authority figure. He'd heard the Dursleys tell their son that often enough when they were both small, and though that advice had never been extended to him personally, he still knew and understood it. He should run, and if that failed, he had to be ready to fight. But something was strange. Harry glanced warily at the two cloaked strangers, testing the air for their auras and finding…strangled excitement? Overbearing joy? _Love_?

"Harry?" The blue figure – definitely a woman – breathed. She sounded close to tears. Harry thought he could see her hands trembling and she took a step forward. Harry shifted back warily, tightening his hand on Darksun, though another part of him, strangely, wanted to let go of the sword. "Is it you? _Harry?_"

"Who are you?" Harry asked, hoping his voice wasn't shaking. This was strange, too strange – everything about these two felt familiar, _deeply_ familiar, though he was sure he'd never met either one of them before. "How do you know me?"

"It's definitely him," the green-robed figure, a man, murmured softly, reaching over and laying a hand on the woman's shoulder. "Looks just like me…and he has your eyes, Lil."

Harry's brain froze, replaying the man's words over and over, unable to fully grasp their meaning just yet. He watched, his hand slipping off of his sword's hilt, as the couple reached up and removed their hoods, revealing…

Messy black hair like his, hazel eyes behind thick glasses, a grin so wide that the man's face could hardly contain it.

Wavy red hair, green eyes filling with happy tears, a smile which absolutely shone with joy even though it trembled at the corners.

"Mom?" Harry whispered, his mind fully realizing at last just what – who – stood before him. "Dad?"

"Good to see you again," James said thickly, "Harry."

* * *

Sirius' nose was pressed to the dusty earth of yet another street. He could smell spilled food, the dirt itself, old sweat, even older blood, the lingering traces of hundreds of people who had stepped on that small patch of land in the last few hours…

But no Harry.

He snorted and trotted on, swinging his head back and forth, ignoring the three reapers – one in yellow, two in blue, all wearing those black cloaks – who were following him. Apparently all the spirits in this place made it hard, almost impossible, to pinpoint a single one unless he was either flaring his aura brightly (Harry wasn't) or they knew precisely where he was (they didn't), so they had resorted to using Sirius as a bloodhound for the search. Despite being a dog and therefore having a very keen sense of smell, however, Sirius was no tracker. Whether because of his own shortcomings or because they were looking in all the wrong places, he hadn't come across a single whiff of Harry's young scent in all the time they had been searching. And though he knew that the cause of Harry's vanishing could very well be innocent, it could also be something terribly dangerous. Sirius couldn't help being worried, and so he did the only thing he possibly could do; he searched harder. Taking directions at random, Sirius swept every surface he could reach thoroughly for any hint of his godson, any sign, _anything…_

The scent hit him like a rolled-up paper across the nose. Finally, at long last, it was Harry – and it was in the air, not on the ground. Sirius looked up immediately, testing the breeze further, before taking off with a happy bark.

And then he was there.

Harry stepped out of a side street, looking a little dazed, a little lost, a little bemused. He had barely a second to glance about, see Sirius barreling toward him, and widen his eyes in shock before the dog was upon him. Sirius pinned him to the ground under his paws, his relief giving over to anger.

_Don't you dare run off like that again_, he wanted to tell the young boy, but he couldn't. Instead, he settled for glaring and digging his paws into the thin shoulders under him and swiping rough doggy kisses over Harry's cheeks and protests. _Don't you dare._

"Snuffles, off!"

Sirius made a point of sitting down on Harry's chest – though he made sure to keep a good deal of weight off of him, as the boy was really small enough to snap under that sort of pressure – and waiting for the reapers to catch up. He didn't have to wait long, as the distance was short enough that even without using that strange blurring ability of theirs they crossed it easily.

"Potter, are you all right?"

One of the blue-shirted men reached down, extending a hand to help Harry up while using the other to push Sirius off. Sirius complied with a huff.

"Yeah, I'm fine…"

"Where were you? We've been searching all over."

"Sorry," Harry said, a little sheepishly. "I just…got lost. It's confusing out here."

_Speaking of confusion_, Sirius thought, edging closer and pressing his nose to Harry's side, _what is this?_

Two more scents were mingled with Harry's, much stronger than the traces that would be left by a casual brush against someone in a street or by a punch from one of those brawlers hours ago. Moreover, they were familiar to Sirius, though he couldn't think of anything in his recent memory that fit them.

_Who? Who who who who?_

He sounded like an owl. Sirius snorted and snuffled a little more, trotting now as Harry and the reapers had started their walk back to the Center.

_Let's see_…

One female, one male. Salt, though it lacked the certain tangs of sweat or sea water…tears? And the scents were similar to Harry's, though older and different in their own rights. Similar enough to be…

Sirius tripped over his own paws with a yelp, righted himself immediately, and bounded forward again with wide eyes, ignoring Harry as the boy asked if he was all right. _Was_ he all right? Sirius wasn't sure. He turned his head and took another whiff of Harry's ribs. The boy laughed.

"Quit that, Snuffles. I'm here, you don't have to keep smelling me to make sure, honest."

It had to be them. There was no other explanation. The scents were _all over_ Harry, suggesting close physical contact, and from what Sirius had seen of the kid, he wasn't very contact-oriented. A pat on the head for his Snuffles every now and then, or a scratch behind the ears, but no hugs or anything of that sort – if someone was that physically close to him, Sirius knew that they had to be even closer emotionally. Plus, for someone who had been lost for two hours or longer, Harry seemed a little too happy.

Sirius breathed in deeply, inhaling the faint tinges of the scents that entered the air right around Harry. It _had _to be them. It could _only _be them.

Harry had found Lily and James.

* * *

Davies was waiting for them by the Archway.

"You're cutting it close," he said by way of greeting, though his eyes flickered over Harry as though to make sure he was all right. "The students at your school are supposed to be back at about three, and it's just ten minutes 'til now."

"Sorry," Harry said again. "Got lost."

Davies shrugged, apparently unconcerned.

"It happens," he said, "especially when you aren't used to being in the Ring. Still, you'd better run now. See you next time?"

Harry's fingers, hooked around his belt, brushed against the tiny lump inside his coat – a lump formed by a metal canister filled with a smoky white substance. He smiled.

"Next time," he promised, drawing his sword and heading for the gate. Davies waved briefly, then turned away to speak to the two blue-shirted reapers who had been part of Harry's search party.

Harry nodded to the blue-shirted guard there, who nodded back before returning to his bored cloud-gazing, and stuck his blade into the center of the empty Archway, turning it. The open space glowed white and became opaque, and a black-and-red swallowtail butterfly drifted out to meet him. Without a backwards glance, Harry plunged into the gateway.

Nobody noticed a big black shadow slipping in behind him, Harry least of all.

* * *

Harry had heard the expression "being on cloud nine" before. He had no idea where it came from or what it really, literally meant, only that it signified floating, brilliant happiness. If there was a cloud nine, then he had easily been on cloud twelve earlier, and couldn't be much lower than eight while walking along the brightly-lit path between worlds, oblivious to the black butterfly dancing around his head and the black dog creeping along a good distance behind his heels. His fingers again brushed the lump hidden in his coat: the first gift he could remember receiving from his parents, and the best.

It was a way to visit them again.

"See you tonight," he had promised, and they had given him clear directions to a safe meeting place, Lily being unwilling to use her spirit blade's special ability on her son a second time.

"I am sorry about that," said her voice, drifting through Harry's memory again. It was wonderful to hear her voice without it crying and pleading. Beyond wonderful. "But it was the only way…"

"Wizards keep their memories after they die," James had said, "and so most of them hide away from the muggle souls. We have our own society, and it doesn't mix much with this one. We had to get special permission to come here and search for you so often..."

"We missed you."

"We're proud of you."

Harry's heart swelled up. That was the only way to describe it; it swelled up and up until it filled his chest and he could feel nothing but pure happiness. With a sudden, bright laugh, Harry leaped forward, breaking into a run and forcing butterfly and dog to scramble to keep up with him.

Then, suddenly, the blue-white tunnel ended, and Harry stepped out into his empty dormitory, still smiling. The stone archway behind him faded into nothing, taking the butterfly with it but leaving the dog behind. Still unknowing of his tag-along, Harry started toward his bed, the only one with curtains drawn, to collect his body.

A sudden growl had him whirling around and staring at Sirius in surprise.

"Snuffles? What are you doing here?"

Sirius ignored Harry. His nose had caught a rat, and now his eyes had caught it as well. Said rat was crouched on another bed's pillow, staring at him, absolutely petrified. Sirius' growl rose in intensity. So fast that it could've practically been a reaper's flash-step, the rat was off the pillow, on the floor, and scrambling through the open door. Just as quickly, Sirius followed.

"Snuffles, NO!"

Harry leapt for the dog but missed, scrambling to his feet and reaching the doorway just in time to see a furry black tail whip around the corner on its way down the staircase. Without a second thought, he followed.

The few students in the common room couldn't be entirely sure what they saw as it happened so fast. First a tiny streak of grey hurtled across the room, slipping through a hole in the wall next to the portrait hole with a terrified squeal. Then, close on the rodent's tail, a massive black dog raced by, hit the back of the portrait in just the right spot to make it open, and disappeared outside. Mere moments later, just as they were beginning to recover and wonder _just what that had been_, Harry Potter appeared at the base of the stairs and also dashed toward the portrait hole, occasionally seeming to flicker forward faster than most people could run. It was over in seconds, and—

"Was that a _sword_?" an awed and confused Colin Creevy asked the room at large.

* * *

It was only by virtue of empty hallways and his occasional success in flash steps that Harry managed to keep up with Snuffles, who was chasing Scabbers as though he had gone mad. Ron was mad enough about Crookshanks trying to eat the rat; Harry did _not _want to explain matters if Ron found out that Scabbers had been killed by the dog that had adopted Harry. Raising a hand as he ran, Harry managed two more flash steps to close a little more distance between himself and Snuffles.

"First seal: quiet ropes!"

But Harry couldn't aim and run at the same time, and the spell missed, striking the ground with no visible effect other than a puff of spiritual vapor. Harry ignored it and kept running, passing the spot in less than two seconds. He could see the rat darting ahead, the dog right on its tail, snapping and growling. Scabbers gained a slight advantage every time he turned a corner, being able to make a much tighter curve than the massive dog, but he never kept that advantage long; Snuffles was a dog possessed. Harry really hoped that the rat didn't get the bright idea to go for a hole in the wall; he'd be caught by the time he got his head through, especially if he picked a spot just a little too small for even his skinny body.

"Snuffles, stop!" Harry shouted desperately, but like every other time, the dog ignored him utterly. "Bad!"

Scabbers ducked down another corridor, Snuffles skidding as he followed. Harry, falling behind, powered forward with another flash step, turning the corner to a confusing, rapidly-moving scene: Scabbers flying through the air, summoned into the hand of Professor Lupin; Snuffles skidding to a halt, yelping; Lupin staring at Snuffles and opening his mouth in shock…

Harry was moving too fast, and he still had to catch that dog. He didn't stop. Before Snuffles, or Lupin for that matter, knew what had happened, Harry had taken a flying leap and tackled the massive black dog to the ground, tumbling down the hallway with him. When they finally stopped, Harry had the wiggling Snuffles pinned down and was glaring at him, looking straight into his frightened brown eyes.

"No, Snuffles, NO! Bad dog, you _don't chase the rat!_ Snuffles, if you'd killed him, Ron would've _murdered_ me, do you even realize that? You don't—"

"Sirius?"

"—need to…what?"

Lupin, still holding a shrieking Scabbers in one hand, suddenly raised his wand and pointed it directly at Harry – no, Harry realized, following the angle of the wood, it was pointed at Snuffles, who had gone abruptly stiff, staring at the man in fear. Harry could feel the dog's heart pounding underneath him.

"Sirius Black," Lupin pronounced grimly. Before Harry could ask what he was talking about, the dog beneath him shifted, and suddenly there were large hands on his shoulders, lifting him slightly as Snuffles – only it wasn't Snuffles the dog any more, but instead a dark-haired man in tattered wizard robes – sat up and turned to face the Professor. Harry stumbled back in shock.

"Remus," the man said hoarsely. "Good to see you. But before you stun me, please, take a good, hard look at the rat in your hand."

* * *

**A/N:** If this isn't updated at all during the month of June, don't be alarmed. I'm planning on devoting that month to some original writing for a contest. I promise, I'm not abandoning this story or _Against All Odds_, for the readers of both, especially at such cliffhangers.

On another note, an anonymous reviewer requested a glossary of terms. Here it is, and I hope it's helpful.

**Shinigami** = Soul Reaper, or Reaper for short.

**Zanpakuto **= Spirit blade.

**Taicho** = chief

**Fukutaicho **= deputy

**Kido** = Deathspells

_(Spells are divided further than 'attack' and 'binding,' but just by a bit. When calling out the name and number, the order's also a bit different. In Japan, it's "Way of destruction number three…" or "Way of binding number three…" In England, it's "Third offensive…" or "Third seal…" or, for purely defensive spells such as shields or walls of energy, which are distinguished in English from those meant to closely and specifically bind an opponent, "Third defensive…"_

_Seals are cast on persons or small objects. Defensives are cast on the environment, even if one can be used to, say, seal off a room or area.)_

**Reiatsu** = aura, occasionally may be casually called 'energy'

**Shinigami-daiko**(sp?) = no real distinction made, though some may call him a pseudo-reaper or a junior reaper, based on personal preference.

**Senkaimon** = The Archway. Worldgate. English versions aren't sliding double-doors, but rather a stone arch or similar construct through which one simply walks. As such, calling one a 'gate' is a little incorrect, though the term does persist anyhow.

**Shikai **= First form. Initial. Release. When saying that someone's "used shikai" or "gone into shikai," English reapers replace that phrase with the verb "released" or "unsealed." Might also say "gone Initial."

**Bankai** = True form. The verb used here would be "unleashed" or "gone True."

**Konso **= The act is called "sending on/off" or just plain "sending." Whereas Japanese might say "I'll go perform konso," English says "I'll go send him/her on." As a form of praise where one might have said "That was a good konso," as to a student, it might become "That was a good send-off."

**Shunpo** = flash step. Simple as that.

**Soul Society **= may be called that since it is in English, but more common is the Afterlife.

**Sereitei** = the area belonging to reapers is called the Center.

**Gotei 13** = equivalent is the Seven Squads, called as a whole the Guard or Seven Guardians.

**Rukongai** = the city just outside the Center is called the Ring. The land beyond that could be called the Outside (by those in the Center/Ring), the Wilds, or even Dead England (occasionally New England, or Nengland by those a little more…picky…about their situation).

* * *

Additional information here about the Seven Squads, for the curious.

Trainees are like the Shinigami students, save that there is no Academy. Instead, they enter basic training directly supervised by the squad they hope to join. Once they reach a certain level, the group class is broken up and they are assigned individual mentors in the squad until they are done with training, at which point they become Junior members. Senior members are those of high standing and power in the squad. Then, there are five basic officers, above which are ranked the deputies and chiefs.  
Trainees wear grey shirts and no black coat.

Commander overall: Gavin Murgatroyd (m)  
(color = white)

Maia – squad 1

Chief: George Cannon (m)  
Deputy: Frank Wescott (m)  
(color = green)

Electra – squad 2

Chief: Susan Blackbourne (f)  
Deputy: Bertram Wolfe (m)  
(color = warm amber)

Taygete – squad 3

Chief: Gwen Hawthorne (f)  
Deputy: Magnolia Fenn (f)  
(color = red)

Alcyone - squad 4

Chief: Blake Storm (m)  
Deputy: Thane Lowry (m)  
(color = deep yellow)

Celaeno - squad 5

Chief: Warren Tate (m)  
Deputy: Janice Acker (f)  
(color = brown)

Asterope – squad 6

Chief: Richard Davies (m)  
Deputy: Alyssa Longstaff (f)  
(color = blue)

Merope – squad 7

Chief: Rhiannon Prescott (f)  
Deputy: Cassiopeia Ray (f)  
(color = violet)


	7. Chapter 7

Harry's mind felt as though it had ground to a near halt, stuck on only two thoughts even as he knew he could be thinking so many other equally important ones. _That's Sirius Black_. Yes, he knew that now, but why was he here? _Sirius is Snuffles_. Yes, but how? Again, why? He could've killed Harry at any time during the summer…_That's Sirius Black._ Around and around in loops he went, unable to properly move from the place in the hall he had stumbled back against.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remus frown and carefully turn his attention to the screaming, wriggling rat in his hand. Sirius Black was watching him eagerly, almost hopefully. Harry's right hand slid around Darksun's hilt without conscious thought, but also without anything else in his mind to have directed the action. A reason slowly arose in his mind, more feeling than thought: _If he moves, if he attacks…protect._ Harry wasn't sure which 'he' he was thinking of, however. Snuffles the dog had loved him, and he'd felt great affection in return, but Snuffles was now Sirius Black, a murderer. Remus was his favorite professor, kind and thoughtful enough to teach him a very difficult spell for his own safety, but he was pointing his wand at the being whom part of Harry's mind still connected to Snuffles, his dog.

His dilemma was solved when Remus' eyes, peering at the rat, suddenly widened, and he turned his attention back to Sirius with a snap.

"Peter?"

Sirius nodded carefully.

"But why…unless you were never…"

Remus seemed to be thinking aloud rather than asking a question, but Sirius seemed to understand. Harry didn't.

"We switched, at the last minute. Thought we were being clever, since Voldemort would never suspect him…but we put the secret right into his hands. I'm sorry, Remus. We would've told you, except…"

"Ah. You thought I…?"

Sirius nodded again.

"All is forgiven. To be honest, I was at least a little suspicious of you, too."

"I don't blame you," Sirius replied with an attempt at a grin.

At that, Remus lowered his wand, Sirius got to his feet, and both men stepped forward to heartily embrace each other like long-lost brothers. Sirius slapped Remus' back a couple of times, but Remus could not return the gesture, having a writhing rat in one hand and a wand in the other. Harry let his hand fall from his sword.

Sirius and Remus stepped back. At that instant, Remus jerked suddenly and hissed in pain; Scabbers had bit him. The rat hit the floor running, but didn't get far; Remus cast a quick, wordless spell that had the rodent floating in the air as though something had caught him up by his back paws.

"Good," Sirius growled, "now just hold him there while I skin him alive, would you?"

"Sirius," Remus said with a warning glance, "for one thing, this isn't the time or place for rat-skinning, let alone manslaughter. For another, I'd much rather use an obviously living Peter to get you _out_ of Azkaban than let you take revenge and get stuck in much the same position as you're in now."

"I've got a place I can go," Sirius said dismissively, "the dementors won't find me there. Twelve years, Remus. Twelve years in that hell-hole…at least let me do one thing they accused me of!"

"I think it's better we held off on that," Remus said, checking his watch. "After all, the Hogsmeade students should be coming back about now, and the last thing any of them need to see is a known murderer in a hallway killing a rat."

Sirius stood still for a moment, then looked over at Harry urgently.

"Harry, your body!"

Harry's eyes widened. It was still in the dorm. The dorm that would, in a short while, be occupied again by friends and classmates who would panic if they found him laying there, apparently _dead_.

"Merlin! I-I'll be right back…don't kill _anything_!"

With that, he wheeled around and sped down the hall, managing a few short flash steps and planning on how he would get through the common room unseen. If he timed the flash step right and managed to make it just long enough…

Behind him, he heard Remus' voice rise briefly in confusion.

"Body? What are you talking…"

And then, with another brief burst of speed, he was gone.

* * *

Not many knew it, but Albus Dumbledore had senses that stretched beyond those of your average witch or wizard. Perhaps because of his admittedly impressive scope of magical power, perhaps because of random chance or a quirk of nature, he had always been able to see and feel things others couldn't. Muggle ghosts haunting muggle places, for example, had always eluded the vision of his friends and family, but he could see them as clear as day, even speak to them if they had a mind to converse with him. At first he had assumed that it was because of magic that this was possible. It didn't take him long to realize otherwise, however – if magic was the answer, then other wizards could sense the same things as him. There was also the fact that he could sense a sort of radiation, a colorless aura of sorts, from certain rare individuals – a purely muggle fortuneteller in London, for instance, or the occasional armed stranger in a black cloak – but absolutely nothing from admittedly powerful wizards. And while it was this discrepancy that led him to the true nature of his ability – the power of a human soul rather than human magic – it was also one that made his senses only sporadically useful at best.

Dumbledore knew full-well that he gave an impression of being all-knowing, or at least being as close to it as a human could be. In truth, however, he was not, and he knew it. A whole host of things could escape his notice in any instant: while he knew that an Archway had been opened in the third year Gryffindor boys' dorm and Harry had stepped through, he truthfully had no idea why said boy then proceeded to rush out of the dorm and through the halls, still in his soul form, in sudden bursts of extreme speed, following a crazy, nonsense route. Intellectually, Dumbledore could assume that Harry was either chasing something or being chased. In terms of his soul-born senses, however, he could not tell who or what else was involved, only that there was a faint trace of power about it, like a smell picked up from an environment rather than one born of the body. Something from the Soul Society, then, but not a soul itself…at least, not one of any substantial spiritual power.

In any event, it tugged at Dumbledore's curiosity, and his curiosity was powerful in and of itself. So, laying aside the document he had been reading, Dumbledore checked Harry's position – he had come to a standstill near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom – and left his office.

As he walked, he sensed Harry rushing away toward Gryffindor tower – he seemed to have picked up that speed-running trick of the Soul Reapers' – but Dumbledore kept on toward the corridor where Harry had eventually halted. The faint trace of soul power was growing slightly stronger in his senses with every step; whatever it was, chances were that it had remained behind while Harry returned to the dorm, something that made little immediate sense if Dumbledore had assumed correctly that there had been a pursuit. He pushed the thought away; answers would come if he looked, and until they did his speculation would be worth little.

Although the Headmaster tried hard not to expect anything in particular, what met his eyes as he rounded the corner was so very _un_expected – unexpect_able_, if he could invent the word – that he couldn't help being surprised. He slipped a hand into his robes and gripped the handle of his wand, though he did not draw it immediately.

"Sirius Black," he intoned casually, though it was with a slight touch of warning, "fancy meeting you here. And Professor Lupin…I trust there is an explanation for this?"

The two men wore faces like students caught out after curfew – hardly the desperate terror of the cornered hunted that Dumbledore half-expected. His eyes flicked over them: Black seemed unarmed, dressed in ragged clothing and badly in need of a shave and haircut, but not as thin as months on the run should have made him. Remus was as he remembered, though his wand was out and raised, pointed at a squirming rat held upside-down in midair. It made for a slightly bizarre picture, and Dumbledore wondered just what the rat had to do with anything.

Then Sirius raised his hands carefully, his expression still one of slight shame and mild fear, though his eyes showed a sane determination at odds with his record of murder.

"There is, Professor," the man said, answering Dumbledore's previous question, "if you'll just hear it out."

Dumbledore weighed out the information he already had, including Harry's apparent involvement and the scent of Soul Society that Sirius still gave off, and made a decision. Drawing his wand and ignoring the slight flinches of both men, he flicked it at the door to the Defense classroom. The heavy wood swung open easily, and he gestured at the doorway.

"Very well. I hope we may use your office, Remus?"

* * *

When Harry returned just fifteen minutes later, properly in his body again and having dodged a few difficult questions asked by those in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius and Lupin were no longer standing in the hallway outside the Defense classroom. Assuming they would be in Lupin's office, Harry made his way to the door and knocked. To his surprise, instead of either man opening it, he was greeted by a smiling old wizard with twinkling blue eyes.

"Professor Dumbledore!"

"And a good afternoon to you, too, Harry. Come inside; we just finished ironing out the particulars of this unexpected event…"

Harry moved past Dumbledore into the rather more crowded than usual office. The chair behind Remus' desk was empty; the reason for this became apparent when Dumbledore shut the door and moved across the room to sit there. Sirius hovered in a corner, ignoring the plush armchair that had certainly not been in the room the last time Harry had been there. Remus sat in another armchair directly beside the empty one, and set in the exact center of the desktop was a small cage with a familiar scrawny rat huddled in one corner. As Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands, and peered intently at the rat, it shifted uncomfortably and released a muted squeak.

"Scabbers…" Harry started, then stopped. He had no idea what he really wanted to ask.

"Is not really Scabbers," Dumbledore offered. "Or rather, he is not the ordinary garden rat that we all assumed he was. This rat is actually Peter Pettigrew, an old friend of your father's. An animagus. I do wish you had told me sooner..."

"I'm sorry, Headmaster," Remus began, but Dumbledore waved it away with a small smile.

"It is in the past now. Though I do believe that Sirius should register once his name has been cleared…and once an appropriate amount of time has passed, of course."

"Once his name is cleared…" Harry repeated, sinking into the unoccupied chair. "So Sirius is innocent? All those people…?"

"It was a clever trick," Sirius growled. "Peter cornered me, framed me, and blew up the street with his wand behind his back. Then he cut off his own finger and vanished as a rat. Everybody thought I was the traitor in the group, and all along, he was the one reporting to Voldemort."

Slowly, in a piecemeal manner, Harry found himself learning more about his father's old friends than he could have imagined before. They were tricksters at Hogwarts, a group called the Marauders. Remus was a werewolf, cursed to transform into a monster every full moon, and his father and their friends all became Animagi to ease Remus' suffering. Sirius had been best man at Lily and James' wedding, and he was named Harry's Godfather.

Peter had been entrusted with the Potters' lives, and he had betrayed them all.

"…and that's why I broke out of Azkaban after all that time. I hadn't realized he was so close to you until I saw that family's picture in the paper – I had always assumed he'd fled the country entirely, being the coward he was."

Harry sat silently, staring at the rat in the cage. It was shaking all over, and Harry tried to imagine a man in its place. It proved impossible; he had no idea what Peter Pettigrew looked like. The best he could manage was a slightly altered Neville Longbottom, an image which Harry rejected the instant it came. Given all that Pettigrew had done, it was an insult to Neville to compare them even superficially.

"Well, there we have it: the whole story at last," Dumbledore said after a few moments of silence. "Now we begin the laborious process of convincing the ministry of this case. Ah, paperwork…a word of advice, Harry: enjoy writing essays while you can. Filling out countless forms in triplicate is a far less desirable task, and it is almost inescapable once you leave your schooling behind."

Harry couldn't help but smile. Dumbledore's humor-filled tone was infectious.

"What about Sirius? Won't he end up in a holding cell somewhere while this is worked out?" Remus pointed out.

"Indeed, Sirius Black would be imprisoned for the duration of the process, but you see, we only have a rat by the name of Peter Pettigrew here. No one has seen Mr. Black for _quite_ some time. In an unrelated circumstance, Hagrid seems to have picked up a large black dog rather like a grim at the edge of the forest and is now nursing him back to health in his home…"

Harry's smile grew to a grin and he glanced back at Sirius to see an answering expression flicker across the man's unshaven face.

"Throwing me to Hagrid? Given what I remember of his cooking, I might not survive," Sirius joked.

"He's gotten better. His toffee now merely locks up the jaws rather than the stomach," Dumbledore assured him.

"Sneak me proper food now and again, would you, Harry? After months of eating leftovers, I don't think I can go back to hunting small animals to survive."

"I'll see what I can do," Harry replied with a laugh.

"Oh, hush, Sirius," Remus said, a wide grin lighting up his normally-weary face. "It won't be that bad. Besides, it'll be rather good for Hagrid as well…he could use a project to take his mind off of that hippogriff incident."

The smile slid off of Harry's face, matching the feeling of his insides sinking to his toes. He hadn't _completely_ forgotten about Buckbeak and Hagrid's plight, but it had been pushed to the back of his mind the past few months. He had been so concerned with his own schoolwork, his upcoming Patronus lessons, and anticipation for his trip to Soul Society that everything else had seemed to diminish in importance, until he hadn't even thought to visit his friend. It made him feel disappointingly selfish, and for a moment he thought of the metal canister hidden on his soul form and foregoing its use…

But no. He had promised, and he couldn't go back on that without a word. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. Instead, Harry resolved to spend what remained of the afternoon with Hagrid and his friends, and to do the same whenever he had a chance in the future.

That decided, Harry shook off the lingering dregs of guilt just as Dumbledore stood up. Pointing his wand at the cage on the desk, he levitated it neatly before him.

"Well, since that is done, I had best get started on a letter to the Minister. Sirius, off to Hagrid with you…and do try to be discrete about it. Remus, if you could come with me? I shall need you to write and sign a statement as the captor of Peter Pettigrew, and also to assist me in finding a secure location for him. And Harry? If you could explain this all to Hagrid, I would very much appreciate it. Do enjoy the rest of your day. I daresay your friends will soon have returned from Hogsmeade…"

With those words and a quick smile, Dumbledore swept out of the door. Remus stood, clapped Sirius on the shoulder, and followed, still looking happier than Harry had ever seen him.

"Later, Moony," Sirius called after the man.

"See you, Padfoot," came the reply, and then they were gone.

Harry looked at Sirius. Sirius caught his eye, then stared at the carpet, fidgeting slightly with the frayed sleeve of his grey robes.

"So…you're my godfather."

Harry wasn't sure where the words had come from, only that he had wanted to say _something_, anything, to break the silence in the room. Sirius nodded, a jerky duck of his head, and raised his eyes to meet Harry's again. A wry grin stretched the corners of his mouth.

"Not done a terribly good job of it so far, have I?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "It's not your fault," he assured Sirius, but the man only barked a short laugh in reply.

"It might as well have been. I convinced your parents to switch Secret Keepers. If I hadn't done that, perhaps they'd still be alive. You could've gotten to know them _without_ having to go to the Afterlife first."

"You didn't know," Harry said, then paused. "Wait…you know? I mean, that I met them? Today?"

Sirius' smile grew a little more genuine and he tapped the tip of his nose.

"Dog senses."

"Oh." Harry remembered the way Snuffles had acted upon his return, sniffing constantly at his side, as though trying to figure something out. He remembered something else and shot Sirius a half-hearted glare. "You didn't need to sit on me."

"Had to make a point: don't go wandering off. You might have a sword, Harry, and you might be able to do _frightening_ things with it, but the world is still dangerous. You're only thirteen, you know."

"I know, and I didn't really mean to wander. I just…"

Harry trailed off into a shrug. The abilities of his mother's spirit blade were not something he wanted to wade through an explanation of, especially since he barely understood them himself. Sirius eyed him for a moment before nodding.

"Just stay safe, and keep that in mind. And the next time you go there and see them, send them my apologies."

Harry wanted to say that his parents wouldn't want or need an apology, but he couldn't. As Sirius had pointed out, he didn't really know them…not yet. So, instead, he nodded and promised aloud to pass the message along, promising himself at the same time that if his parents had any response at all, he would make sure to take it back to Sirius.

"Good," Sirius said, and his fidgeting grew a little more frantic. His sleeve was rapidly beginning to unravel by this point. "So…um…since you know I'm your godfather…well, that means your parents appointed me your guardian, so that if anything happened to them…"

Harry's confusion morphed into surprise, then something warm and tentative that tingled against the walls of his chest. Was Sirius asking…?

"Of course, if you'd rather stay with your aunt and uncle…"

"Not really, no," Harry replied, trying to stay calm at least outwardly. Inside, however, he was pretty sure a few of his ribs were close to vibrating out of place.

"Well, then…once my name's cleared…if you wanted a different home…"

"I could leave the Dursleys? Come live with you?" Harry asked. His voice cracked a little halfway through; it felt as though his spirit had suddenly grown several sizes too big for his body and was trying to break out.

"If you like…I wouldn't try to make you…"

"Of course I would!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! Do you have a house? When can I move in?"

The biggest smile Harry had ever seen burst through Sirius' face. It made the man look thoroughly alive and years younger, in spite of his still-bedraggled hair and beard.

"When everything's finished," he promised, "Almost definitely by next summer. Though maybe if Dumbledore can get the Ministry to move their fat arses on the matter it could be done by Christmas…maybe."

Harry smiled back, the wild joy subsiding into a simple, pulsing happiness. It seemed days ago that he finally met his parents again; so much had happened in so little time. Even the aches he had gained from that very morning's sparring seemed to have vanished utterly.

As they stood in silence in Lupin's office, the muted hum of human voices and tramping feet reached them through the stone walls. Sirius nodded toward the door.

"Sounds like they're back. I'm going to have my work cut out for me, getting down to Hagrid's unseen."

"I could go get my invisibility cloak," Harry offered.

"James' invisibility cloak?" Sirius asked in surprise. Harry nodded, and Sirius whistled slightly. "Merlin, that thing must've been well-made to last this long. James got it from _his_ dad. No thanks, anyway. Nobody in this school knows its secret passages better than I do. I'll just wait here a little while for the crowds to pass."

"I could wait with you."

"Nah," Sirius said with a grin. "Dumbledore gave you a job. It won't be much good if I show up down at Hagrid's before the guy knows what's going on."

"I'll meet you there, then?" Harry asked, hesitant to leave. Sirius reached forward and placed a hand on his head.

"It's a promise," he said.

Harry left the office slowly, but as his feet carried him through the classroom, into the corridor, and in the direction of the entrance hall he found them gradually picking up speed until he was outright sprinting. Had he been in his soul form, he might have been flash-stepping; he wanted to run. Better yet, he wanted to fly.

The hum of laughing students grew slightly louder; though the bulk of them had already returned and moved through the halls back to their common rooms, stragglers still wandered the corridors. Harry turned a corner and immediately dodged a trio of older students. His training made it instinctive; he hardly paused to think as he dashed around them, and he barely registered their surprised outcry behind him. Most of his focus was inward, on his explosive joy, and what attention he had turned outside was dedicated to navigating the halls on his way out.

All the same, when someone called his name, he slowed slightly and looked over his shoulder. Hermione and Ron were standing together, looking bemusedly at him. Harry skidded to a halt, turned around, and jogged back.

"Harry, what—"

He didn't give Hermione time to finish. Before either of his friends knew quite what was happening, he had one of their wrists in each of his hands and was tugging them along. They needed to come; he wanted to share this with someone, and who better than his best friends?

"We're going to Hagrid's," he announced, letting go when they regained their feet and started matching his pace.

"Why? What happened?" Hermione asked, at the same time as Ron demanded, "What's got _you_ so happy?"

"Just wait 'til we get to Hagrid's," he said, grinning. They reached the Entrance Hall, still dotted with small groups of students. "I just had one of the best days of my life."

* * *

Left kick. Right punch. Right kick. Left punch. Turn. High cross block, left downward block, right punch.

The movements were mechanical, lacking any significant force as well as a good deal of grace. They often paused or stuttered; he had learned this kata while he was still young, and he considered it nearly miraculous that he still remembered so much of it.

Turn. Horse stance. Low cross block, trap, sweep. Deep breath.

He felt restless and listless at the same time. He had already done enough thinking for a lifetime, and it led him in circles between truths he didn't want to admit and facts he didn't want to face, as much as he knew he had to. And there was another of those facts.

The double knife hand block was performed a little harder than the last few movements.

Thinking would lead him nowhere, at least not until he got himself settled. Sitting still made him edgy; pacing wasn't productive enough to satisfy him. He needed to train. There was just one problem with that…

Right spear hand. Downward palm block. Left palm strike. Right kick. And…nothing.

Darksun stood still in a right-foot forward fighting stance, scowling at thin air as he tried to remember whatever came next. His efforts were in vain, however, and he gave up, standing upright and turning his scowl to the blue, cloudless sky above him. The air was still and warm, comfortably so, but it was quiet. At least when he was moving he could hear cloth rustling, the chain around his waist clinking, his own soft grunts as he drove his fists forward. Now that he stood still, however, the quiet made itself fully known again.

And that was the problem he had with training alone.

He _really _needed to talk to Harry.

Darksun shook his head, and the worded thought left his mind, though the essence of its meaning lingered. There were so many problems with that course of action…but at the same time, was there really any other option? He had tried ignoring it, pretending there was nothing wrong. He had tried hiding away in this deep, motionless world, avoiding anything that could _go_ wrong. None of it had worked.

He remembered the momentary thrill of preparing to battle a strong opponent, the emotions he had felt before Harry made him realize what he was doing. He had tried to justify himself with the idea that he was only protecting Harry, but he couldn't deny that this wasn't the whole truth. Not really. That echo of Kenpachi, born from his mind, so long ago…it had been right, at least in part. He loved to fight. Now that he was aware of the entire nature of his being, of both that which was formerly hollow and that which was human, how could he argue otherwise?

How could he _not_ tell his wielder of something so important?

Perhaps the kata had done its trick, he reflected vaguely, forming a fist and releasing it. These ideas he was running away from had settled into his mind, starting to make too much sense to argue against, and more and more his arguments appeared to him worthless, full of fear of the unknown. He should be braver than this: that was who he _was_, and in an oblique, sideways fashion, Harry was him as well.

You shouldn't be afraid of yourself. Cautious, perhaps, if necessary, but not afraid.

The shinigami had feared the hollow inside, and that only gave the hollow power…_power_?

Darksun closed his eyes and thought, slipping into the sort of mindset that was mostly hollow, where power was everything, was the natural order of the world, was the key by which a king either gained or lost his crown…

Strength was power. The instincts that came from his hollow being were what craved power, but they would also bow to it if someone else's strength proved greater. He had bowed once, when his shinigami self finally gained enough strength to cement his claim to the crown. The hunger had never left, but it had quieted, and now…now that he was not a hollow, not a shinigami, but a zanpakuto, that hunger was quiet enough to begin with. Perhaps it could practically be eradicated, if Harry could defeat him.

Darksun paused.

_If Harry could defeat him._

Harry was a long way from being strong enough to take him on, he knew well. He was still very, very young – younger than Ichigo had been when he became a shinigami – and, while a quick and instinctive learner when he put his mind to it, Harry lacked the insane learning curve, sheer raw power, and driving motivation combined with vital deadlines that Ichigo had both enjoyed and suffered. Darksun's former shinigami self might have achieved bankai in two days and beat his hollow down once in about an hour, but he would have to steel himself for long patience and self-control when it came to Harry; he couldn't expect the same of his own reaper. All the same, he could accelerate things just a bit by purposely training Harry. Defeating Darksun was practically winning bankai in and of itself, after all, and he wasn't keen on waiting a century for that to happen, either.

So that was two things, Darksun decided at last. One: make Harry stronger, to force his instincts to stop raging. Two: make Harry understand him, to see if he couldn't throw a bankai into the bargain. Both would be difficult and require him stepping well outside of his normal comfort zone…but he had to at least try, and there was no time like the present.

Decision made, he returned to the surface of Harry's mind, trying to decide how to start his serious talk with the boy. What he emerged upon, however, was enough to derail his own thoughts.

First off, Harry was happy…almost deliriously so. The emotion thrummed just under the surface of his every thought and action so that it started to rub off somewhat on Darksun himself. He shook the sensation off, trying to focus on the _why_, but unable to pick up anything coherent.

Then he looked through Harry's eyes, hoping for a hint, and found that it was dark. It was dark, and Harry was in his dormitory room, looking briefly at his own body on the bed, pulling the curtains shut around it, stepping toward the relatively clear area at the room's center, and – heedless of the sounds of sleeping classmates around him – drawing Darksun's sealed form.

"_What're you doing_?"

Harry jumped a little in surprise, but didn't make a sound. Instead, he answered in his own mind.

_Oh, you're back!_

Darksun waited for an explanation. Instead of offering one, Harry thrust the blade forward in the air, turning it like a key. A stone archway appeared from nowhere, white light spilling from it, and a black butterfly fluttered out to circle Harry's messy head. He stepped through the Gate, his empty hand digging around inside of his coat.

"_What are you doing?_" Darksun asked again, enunciating every word with deliberate clarity. Harry just shrugged.

"Going on a visit," he said aloud. By now, Darksun had completely forgotten what he had meant to talk to the young reaper about; this was too strange.

"_In the middle of the night?"_ he asked. "_Soul Society sort of works with the same clock as the living world, you know."_

"I know," Harry replied, and the happiness in his mind and soul reached a peak point as his thoughts turned to…

"_Who're they?_" Darksun asked, and as soon as he did so he knew the answer. "_Your parents."_

"I met them today," Harry replied, fingering the metal canister he had pulled from the front of his coat. He had sheathed his sword, and now he simply followed the butterfly with that strange, finger-long piece of rounded silver in hand. Darksun felt a momentary surge of vague jealousy – he had never, in all that time, found his own mother in the Afterlife – but shoved it away almost as soon as it appeared. This was not something he should be envious about. Instead…

"_And now you're going to see them again_," he surmised. "_Do they know about this?"_

Harry nodded. "Mum gave me this," he said, glancing at the canister and knowing that Darksun would see it.

And then, suddenly, the butterfly ahead vanished into the white glow, and Harry followed it through the Archway, uncapping the canister as he did so. Immediately, a pale fog spilled out, enveloping Harry completely before disappearing. The light in the Archway faded behind him; Harry looked about quickly, and Darksun caught a glimpse of a single guard slumped against the stone, reading by flashlight and completely oblivious to Harry's presence. Then the young reaper turned away and started to flash-step – Darksun was impressed and wondered when he'd picked it up – away toward the nearest gate.

"_What _was_ that?_"

"Sort of a spell. Mum's spirit blade – Snowplume, I think – can do things like that: make people sleepy, make them want to go places and do things, make them not really notice something…she actually filled that canister with a bit of whatever her sword gives off so I could come through."

It seemed suspiciously secretive to Darksun, giving Harry something which he could use to remain unseen by that guard. It wasn't as though he needed to sneak about; at most, the guard might try to send him back to the living world since it was so late. Harry was a friend to these people. Not an enemy or an invader. And that spirit blade's list of abilities sounded awfully close to mind-control to him…

"_Harry?_" he asked, remembering things he had been told about going off on his own as a child, "_does anyone back at Hogwarts know where you're going?_"

"No," Harry replied off-handedly, navigating the streets of the Ring more slowly and scanning the buildings as though looking for a particular address. "Though I guess Dumbledore might. Maybe. He always seems to know these things."

"_So there's nobody who definitely knows you're here?"_

"I'll be fine. I'm not meeting them too far from the Center, so I probably won't run into trouble on the way there."

"_That's not what I meant,_" Darksun groaned, "_Harry, don't you think it's just a little weird that these people – your parents – are telling you to meet them in the middle of the night outside the Center without anyone else knowing where you've gotten off to?"_

Harry was silent for a moment, though he didn't stop walking.

_They aren't kidnappers,_ he finally replied, though not aloud this time. _They're not fakes. I just _know…_Dark, if you'd felt it too, if you'd seen them..._

"_Why all the sneaking about, then?"_ Darksun pointed out, not willing to give up when it was his own reaper's safety at risk, "_If your mother has a spirit blade, then she should be a reaper. She should be meeting you in the Center, right?_"

_It's hard to explain,_ Harry replied, slowing further as he concentrated more on his reply than on where his feet were going. _Wizards in the Afterlife…they're so used to separating themselves from muggles that they just sort of keep doing it, I guess. Most of them, anyhow. They'd rather live in secret, and since Mum and Dad are with them, they can't go marching up through the Center to see me. It's like they aren't really allowed to. So they're doing the best they can. That's all._

Darksun considered it for a while.

"_That…doesn't make much sense._"

"Why not?" Harry mumbled, back to searching the buildings. They were no longer in a quiet residential area; instead, light spilled onto the street from a few small storefronts here and there, and a few people were actually out and about. It seemed that even this late at night, when the sky was dark as pitch and the stars blazed full force above, some souls occasionally wanted to go out to eat or to buy something.

"_The Center knows about wizards, and I could swear I don't remember any problem with that fact on their end. Plus, they have the same powers now, so what's the big deal_?"

Harry shrugged, spotted what he was looking for, and headed in the direction of what appeared to be a sort of small, hole-in-the-wall eatery advertising fish chowder as the soup of the month. Darksun could see what Harry could through the window: a hooded and cloaked pair sitting at the far end of the counter inside, with the end of a scabbard just visible under the green-clad one's cloak and a bit of red hair spilling from the other's blue hood.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," Harry finally replied at a low murmur, reaching for the door. In a flash, Darksun was reminded of what he had originally intended by his re-emergence.

"_Wait,_" he said, and Harry paused. "_I needed to talk to you about something._"

The two at the counter had seen Harry; they turned expectantly toward him, pushing their hoods back to reveal joyous smiles. The man waved briefly, and the woman held out a welcoming arm.

_Can it wait?_ Harry begged plaintively, looking back at his parents. Darksun felt the thrum of happiness and impatience in him again, and he imagined it might've been what he would have felt, had he ever found Kurosaki Masaki in the afterlife…

"…_yeah_," he replied quietly. "_It can wait_."

Harry smiled, pulled the door open, and went to his parents.

* * *

Many, many miles away, deep in a forest and deep underground, another door swung open. This door was thick, made of a strong dark-stained wood and well-balanced on brassy hinges, rounded at the top and windowless. It opened into a spacious room well-lit and warmed by a large fireplace, the walls and tables about it dotted with a variety of candles and lamps. Thick rugs of deep reds, blues, and emerald greens were scattered across the stone floor, and cases of books and scrolls covered the walls. Despite the appearance of good use that the entire room gave off, at the moment only one person was within – a woman, perhaps in her early thirties or so, with her mid-length blonde hair tied up in a braid and a short sword tucked into the sash of her dark red robes. She had been standing before the fireplace reading a small book, but when the door opened she lifted her head and laid the book aside on a small table.

"Phineas," she greeted the man in the doorway.

"Good evening, Lady Sinclair," the man replied, closing the door behind him. A quick, small smile crossed his face. "Or, rather, good night. But that doesn't sound quite the same, does it?"

Phineas was a tall man, almost lanky, with dark hair that was just going grey at the temples and a pair of wire-frame reading glasses perched on his sharp nose. His pencil-thin build, apparent even under the loose black robes he wore, made the longsword across his back appear incongruous almost to the point of ridiculous, like a teddy bear clutched by a bodybuilder. Despite this distractingly strange part of his appearance, he carried himself upright and proud, and the look in his eyes was confident and clever.

Sinclair gestured to the fire, and Phineas wandered over to join her, unbuckling his sword as he went and dropping it across an armchair in easy reach. He stretched slightly, making his spine pop as the tension caused by the sword's weight was relieved.

"How went your classes today?"

Phineas shrugged.

"Much the same as they have the past hundred years. The young ones are eager, but know so little to start with that it is difficult to teach them further. The older ones have the basic foundation of living magic, but are too proud to learn this sort. For the most part, anyhow."

Sinclair hummed a vague agreement. Phineas, staring into the fire and rubbing the bridge of his nose, seemed to remember something.

"Oh, yes. Something did happen today: Pressley threw a fit over his sword."

"What, again?" Sinclair sounded amused. "Didn't you tell me about him last week?"

"Last week it was over learning to compress spirit particles, but yes, it was the same man. He keeps demanding that someone make him a new wand and 'throw this old-fashioned muggle pig-sticker back onto a suit of armor where it belongs.' Seems to think that magic should work the same here as it always has for him. Poor fellow. Nearly a century of a single way of life, and then death changes everything."

"Death did that to all of us," Sinclair replied calmly, almost cooly. "We simply needed to adapt…even to the 'old-fashioned muggle pig-stickers.' Pressley will realize that soon enough."

"Calypso," Phineas said warningly, "don't you start in on the swords, too. I thought I'd talked sense into you already."

"No, no, I'm not disparaging it. Don't worry, Phineas, you made yourself quite clear before."

"…well, good," he said after a pause. "I'm glad you understand, at least. I get enough of that obstinate attitude from my students. I truly wish I had Lily Potter's gift for explaining these things to them – even Pressley listened to her last week, at least for a bit."

"Ah, yes…the Potters. Amazing, about their son, isn't it?"

Phineas nodded.

"I've never been a father myself, but it sounds like a parent's dream come true, doesn't it? They die, and so they cannot expect to see their son again until he dies as well. Most parents would both want to see him soon and wish that it take a century or more, simply because of the principle of the thing…but the Potters get the best of both options. The boy is still technically alive, and they could meet him early."

"Interesting point of view," Sinclair said, taking a seat at last. Phineas followed suit, moving his sword to lean against the side of the chair. "I almost expected you to be envious of his freedom to move between worlds."

"I'll admit a little jealousy there," Phineas replied with a shrug. "He's a fortunate young wizard."

"More than that, wasn't your entire body of work while you still lived based on travel between worlds?"

"That's in the past, Calypso," Phineas said, once again a hint of warning creeping into his voice. "And while I'm still interested in just how they make those gates work, two hundred years is more than enough time to allow my fascination to shift into other realms."

Sinclair shrugged, letting the topic slip away with that one movement.

"As for myself," she said, "I'm mostly disappointed that the muggles found him first. Unless something changes, he is yet another wizard that we cannot really trust. Such a shame."

Though the words themselves were mild, her tone was slightly bitter.

"I disagree," Phineas said slowly. "True, it's possible that his first loyalty will be to the muggles, that he may not realize the importance of our self-governance, but I, for one, have never really believed that we should alienate wizards and witches who chose to live among others in the Afterlife. Besides – a living soul? I should very much like to meet him as well."

Sinclair frowned thoughtfully at the fireplace. The logs had begun to burn down, but neither of them made a move to add more. Phineas leaned over the arm of his chair, lowering his voice slightly.

"How long are we, wizards and witches all, going to hide from former muggles? Really, I understand that we all prefer our privacy and secrecy, but this borders on the ridiculous. Perhaps it's time we came out and lived under open sunlight again. Perhaps this boy, a living wizard and a soul reaper at the same instant, is a sign of sorts…perhaps even a key. Just say the word, Calypso Sinclair, and let him meet his kin here. Let him meet you and I. Let him see what we all are and decide for himself whether he wants wizards to bow before muggles or to live freely, ruling themselves. If he's anything at all like his parents, I'd say that we could trust him with our secrets, easily."

"When it comes to that _Center_ of theirs, there is nothing easy about any of this," Sinclair replied sharply. She leaned back in the stuffed armchair with a sigh, rubbing her forehead with one hand.

"Very well," she said at last, "do what you like. Talk to the parents first, see if they'd be willing to set up a time and place, and perhaps once he's gotten used to our Soul Society, you could meet them all yourself."

"I'll do it at once," Phineas replied, unfolding his tall form from the chair. Once upright, he paused for a brief moment. "Well, when Mr. and Mrs. Potter return, anyhow."

Sinclair stood as well, walking toward the door with Phineas, who was strapping his longsword across his back once again.

"Well, while you wait for them, there is more I want to talk to you about," she said. Phineas opened the door for her, smiling wryly.

"I don't doubt it. Leadership is a job that never rests."

Sinclair swept through the door, Phineas following her soon after. The door swung shut, and every light in the room went out by magic, leaving it all in darkness.

* * *

**A/N:** I realize that this is much, much shorter than my usual chapters. I apologize, but the plotline demanded a break here, and besides, I thought it better to update something sooner rather than linger over it in an attempt to stretch the word count out further.

I also apologize for how long this took. Apparently, taking a month-long hiatus from writing fanfiction only makes picking it up again afterward difficult, nigh impossible. Here's hoping I'm not dumb enough to make that mistake again.

Many thanks to Emememe, mabidoso, and chuchuhorse, who sent me PMs asking me to sit down and type already. It still took me a while, but the motivation can't be underestimated.

**One last thing**: between the last chapter and this one, two wonderful readers drew fanart! I really highly recommend you go and look them up, and if you have a DeviantArt account, leave a comment for them.

_http: /sundogreverse. deviantart. com/ art/Wizard-and-Zanpakuto-pg-1- 168189463?q= favby%3AOreramar% 2F7386003&qo=19_

^ The first page of a three-page comic (in full color!) by SundogReverse (on FF.N, The Listening Breeze), depicting a scene in chapter two.

_http:/ chuchu-horse. deviantart. com/ art/Ichigo- 173047239?q= favby%3AOreramar%2F7386003&qo=7_

^ Beautiful lineart of Ichigo in an amazing costume inspired by this fanfiction, drawn by Chuchuhorse. Look well – I love this design enough that I want to incorporate certain aspects of it in this story later on.

Thank you so much, everyone, for reading this fic and writing to me about it. It means a lot to me.

Until next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **The true chapter 8 of Wizard and Zanpakuto, as promised. Hope everyone found at least a little enjoyment in my joke yesterday - thanks for being so tolerant of my antics.

* * *

Harry had never known real parents before.

He'd _seen_ them, yes, always with other children: adults taking their little ones to primary school and picking them up again afterward, holding hands in stores and playing ball with them in the park. He'd seen his aunt and uncle interact with Dudley, showering him with both material and emotional love and attention. But for himself, there had always been a gap there, a place where the air was empty and cold. When he had been young, he filled it with his dreams, imagining various scenarios where his parents came out of nowhere one day to take him home. The circumstances didn't matter; only their smiling (indistinct) faces and warm, welcoming arms were important. In his mind, he had them. In his mind, he could be happy.

As he grew, he came to face cold reality: his parents were long dead, and they could never come to take him away. This still didn't stop him dreaming.

Then, this very day, his dreams had come true, so suddenly and so bizarrely that Harry was half-terrified that he would suddenly wake up in his bed to realize that the warm hugs, words, and laughter were nothing but illusions, phantoms in his mind. He clung to this place and time, unwilling to admit when he grew tired hours into the night, because anything could trigger a sudden awakening.

Anything at all.

His mother draped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close, ruffling his hair with her free hand. Harry felt that in that moment he could have produced the world's best patronus with hardly more than a thought.

"Just like yours, James," she commented for the third time that night, tugging gently on a lock. "You two look so alike!"

"The girls must love him, then," James replied with a smirk. "So, Harry…got a girlfriend yet? A crush? The love of your life?" Harry's beaming smile twisted in half-felt embarrassment.

"_Dad_," he protested, and Lily lightly whacked her snickering husband across the shoulder.

"Thirteen is far too young to date, no matter what you happen to think," she admonished him.

"I fell for you at _twelve_."

"And I refused to go out with you until we'd both grown up a little and _you _had deflated your head to a more normal size," Lily retorted, then added to Harry, "it took him five years to manage it."

This bickering and teasing was a side to his parents which Harry had never even briefly imagined in his childhood fantasies.

"It's not like you made it clear that I was supposed to do so."

"Five years of blatantly calling you _arrogant_ wasn't sign enough?"

He hadn't been quite sure what to make of it at first, but after several hours of animated conversation and light argument, Harry thought he actually rather enjoyed listening to this. It simply made everything seem that much more real, that much less a dream inspired purely out of his imagination.

James held his hands up as though warding off a blow, though he ruined the gesture by rolling his eyes.

"All right, all right, I got it. _Men are obtuse idiots incapable of seeing the simplest things_, greatest rule known to any woman. Harry, remember that. It could save you a lot of trouble in the future."

Harry laughed sleepily.

"I'll tr-_try_," he yawned, and Lily frowned, glancing quickly up at the clock on the wall.

"It's _that _late already?" she exclaimed.

"I'm not tired yet," Harry tried to protest, but his parents were already standing and throwing on their cloaks. James dropped some coins on the counter to pay for their late meal. "And I don't have any classes tomorrow…today; it's Sunday," he attempted further.

It was no use; Lily would hear none of it.

"You're a growing boy, and you need your rest. Besides, if you weren't tired, why do you keep yawning?" she added, catching Harry in the middle of another one. He tried to stifle it, but it was too late.

James laid a hand on his shoulder.

"It's fine. You can come see us next week. Same time, same place?"

"Why not tomorrow?" Harry protested as they swept him out the door.

"School comes first. Cheer up; most of your friends don't get to see their parents every week while they're at Hogwarts, right?"

They stopped in a shadowed spot between storefronts. Lily unsheathed Snowplume and whispered the release phrase, and James cupped his hands together, gathering reiatsu from the air and molding it into two identical silver cylinders. Lily filled them with white smoke from her sword, and then they were handed to Harry.

"One to get you back tonight, the other for next week," James said, clasping them in Harry's hand. "See you then, kiddo."

Lily swept Harry into a warm hug.

"We love you. Be good in your classes for us, okay?"

"Except in Snivellus'," James interjected. Lily drew back from Harry to throw the man a sharp look.

"_Especially_ for Professor Snape's. Potions is important."

"Give Padfoot our best," James said, choosing not to respond to Lily for the time being, "and tell the dumb mutt it wasn't his fault."

"Give our love to Remus as well."

"I've not really told him about…all this, yet," Harry said, gesturing at himself expressively.

"When you're ready, then," Lily said comfortingly.

"Wish you could've known him as 'Uncle Moony' before something stuffy like 'Professor Lupin,' though," James said, shaking his head.

"There you go again," Lily said, catching Harry in another yawn. She spun him around and gave him a tiny push. "Go on, back to Hogwarts now. Sleep well."

"Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad," Harry said, looking over his shoulder as he slowly began to walk away. Then, mustering all the force he had in him, he managed to choke out two words he'd never had the opportunity for before:

"Love you."

His parents smiled back at him, a little mistily. James draped his arm about Lily's waist and raised his free hand in a little wave.

"Love you too, son."

Harry smiled and forced himself to walk on, his heart both lighter and fuller than it ever had been before.

Next week couldn't come quickly enough for him.

* * *

Darksun had been keeping an ear out (so to speak), and so he knew when Harry's meeting with his parents finally finished. He waited for his reaper to stumble through the Archway into the Gryffindor dorms before emerging in Harry's mind again.

"_So…how'd it go?_"

"Good," Harry replied sleepily, moving slowly through the darkened room toward his curtained four-poster bed. "Talked a lot. Gotta see Sirius tomorrow, let him know."

"_Okay. Great. Listen, remember how I said I had something I needed to tell you?"_

"Yeah?" Harry slid through the curtains, touched his arm, and sank back into his physical shell with a soft flash of blue light.

"_Got time now?_"

"Mebbe…" Harry started to drift off, his very full day finally catching up to him and hitting him hard. Darksun tried to keep his attention, but it was like catching hold of the shifting sands of Hueco Mundo; it kept trickling away from his grasp.

"_It's important!_" Darksun tried, but it was too late; without warning, Harry had fallen into deep sleep. Darksun lingered in the surface level of his mind before dropping back into the inner world once more.

_Well, that went well_, he thought mulishly, jumping up into the tree to wait for morning to come.

He waited far longer than he expected. Harry had been truly exhausted when he fell into bed that night; he slept well until noon. Even then he was only half-coherent for a good hour or so, hardly a good state for the serious conversation Darksun kept rehearsing to himself over and over again. A further distraction occurred in the form of Hermione Granger, who chose that instant to get on the boys' cases about their homework and the coming school week. How she managed to expend so much energy on Harry and Ron when she was barricaded behind a mountain of books herself was beyond Darksun, but it did serve to keep Harry very occupied until evening. Then, after a quick visit to Sirius and Hagrid, dinner, and preparation for bed, Darksun finally found his moment.

"_Talk, now._"

Harry paused briefly while climbing into bed.

_Okay, hold on_.

The curtains were closed, good nights called out, and then Harry finally allowed himself to fall into his sunlit inner world.

He stretched and took a deep breath, grinning at the feel of the black coat and the sword belted at his waist, the smell of the dry grass and great green tree, the sight of the black-clothed figure leaning against the trunk. Darksun's face was serious, but when wasn't it? As the sword spirit straightened and jerked his head in a 'come here' gesture, Harry was hit by a strange, wild thought. Perhaps it was brought on by his finding family only the day before, perhaps not, but…

Could Darksun somehow be considered a sort of older brother figure?

Harry didn't really dislike that idea much...

Darksun waited for Harry to join him beside the tree before clearing his throat.

"_I…_" he said, scowling in thought. _"I'm not really sure how to start this._"

Harry shrugged. He had no idea what this was about, so he couldn't help.

"_Okay…you know all those questions you ask, about whether I used to be…human or not?"_

"Yeah?"

"_Well. You're half-right. Or something like that, anyhow._"

"Half-right?" Harry's mind immediately flew to those who were considered half-humans in the wizarding world: vampires, centaurs, other mixed races such as Professor Flitwick…none of them really seemed to fit.

"_I used to be sort of like you. A living Shinigami…or reaper. But there was a difference, and it's…well…_"

Darksun shifted uncomfortably, and there was a long pause.

"How'd you become a spirit blade?" Harry asked, feeling he'd waited long enough and truly curious about it. If it was just something that _happened _to living reapers, he really wanted to know.

"_Not too important…not yet at any rate. I guess you could say I made a choice. Don't worry about it. I'll get there if I have to._"

Another long pause passed, and the sword sighed heavily, his breath rattling softly on its way out.

"_No easy way about this, and it's a long story. Get comfortable._"

Following his own advice, Darksun sank down to sit against the trunk, staring out into the distance. Harry followed suit, though he kept his own gaze fixed on his sword's face.

"_Okay, basic version is this: I was pretty much born human, but with spirit powers. One night a hollow attacked my family, and there was a Shinigami there. I did something stupid; Rukia – that's her name – saved me but got hurt. She turned me into a Shinigami to take her place. Lotta stuff happened. The power she gave me was taken away, and she was gonna die. Better not get into all the details. Let's just say I needed power, and lots of it, and fast. I owed her, big._

"_So I got help. Someone gave me a way to get my own Shinigami powers, but it was risky. I could only become a Shinigami if I almost became a hollow. Opposites attract or something, I guess. Only I cut it too close. I sorta…got torn in half. I turned into both. The Shinigami side won that first conflict without realizing it, won the race, got control of the body. The hollow half hid in the inner world, supplied power…got stronger…"_

Darksun's voice drifted off. Harry was struggling to find the importance in this information; it was like nothing he'd ever heard of before, and the way Darksun spoke was confusing. It was as though he was neither half of himself, as though he'd only observed what was happening after this split he spoke of.

"_More stuff happened. It's complicated. I guess you could say the hollow got hungry or something…remember what I told you about them?"_

"They…eat souls?" Harry ventured.

"_In order to…?_"

"Grow? Get stronger?"

"_Right. Anyhow, the shinigami wasn't growing stronger fast enough for the hollow. We were the same being, but we had different goals, and so there was a disagreement. The hollow wanted more power and fast, and the shinigami thought he had everything handled well enough. Whoever was in charge of the body could make the decisions…be the king. The other would supply power in the soul, be the horse. The shinigami won the race the first time, but the hollow started pushing for control through battle. The shinigami won that one as well, but it was close, so the hollow still had room to push. Eventually the shinigami side won a battle handily enough to satisfy the hollow with his strength. The hollow stopped pushing once it was satisfied that the king was strong enough. It was willing to become the horse. Hollows serve the strongest; it's their nature."_

Once again, Harry was at a loss. This time Darksun noticed his disquiet, for he turned at last to face Harry, yellow eyes piercing.

"_You wondering what this' got to do with you?_"

"Yeah, I guess so," Harry responded. Darksun looked away, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully.

"_Guess I'll have to get into the whole zanpakuto – spirit blade – thing anyhow. It's like this: I was in a tough spot and had to do something. My best shot was to become a spirit blade. This left my own blade out, but it re-combined the shinigami and the hollow halves into a single being. I dunno if maybe this threw something off, but I get the feeling I'm a little…different. A lot different. Harry…_" Darksun fidgeted with his clothing, demonstrating nerves that Harry had never seen in the moody young sword before. "_What do you think I am_?"

Harry paused before answering, unsure if it was a trick question. His eyes flicked over Darksun's face, his eyes, his hair, the horned skull on his shoulder which Harry always thought was a pauldron but could easily have been a mask, and wondered how it all really fit together.

"A…spirit blade, right? Who used to be a human-reaper…hollow?"

"_Hollow. There's the problem. It's like something didn't combine completely. I think I'm not a normal zanpakuto, like the ones which used to be normal shinigami. I'm not even myself as I was before the splitting. I retained all the memories of each side, all the thoughts and feelings…all the instincts…_"

Darksun waited for Harry to catch on, but the boy still looked uncertain. Another hissing, rattling sigh, and Darksun closed his eyes.

"_I'm still part hollow, and that part wants to be in charge. I'm still part shinigami, and that part wants to beat the hollow in every way. You're the king, so to speak, of this body._"

He held his breath. This time, Harry understood.

"You want to…take over?"

"_I don't!_" Darksun protested, his eyes flashing open, "_but my instincts do. There's a difference._"

"O-okay…but…you've been okay so far, right?"

"_So far doesn't mean forever."_

Harry turned himself to better face Darksun, looking him straight in the eyes.

"But you've been okay so far," he reiterated. "And you don't _want_ to take over. You told me about resolve, over and over. Isn't that enough?"

Darksun paused before slowly shaking his head.

"_Not always. Fighting your instincts…it's hard. There're no guarantees. I'd rather shut the instincts up completely instead of try to ignore them. And for that…you've gotta do something too."_

"Like what?"

Darksun's eyes hardened.

"_You have to defeat me in serious battle._"

Harry's first thought was '_impossible_.' Stepping back and giving that thought a little more room, it certainly seemed that way. Harry was thirteen years old, and though his previous haphazard training had served to make him stronger and _much_ faster than he might have been otherwise, he was still rather short and scrawny for his age. Darksun had the appearance and build of a much older teen who was used to working out…extensively. He had advantages of height, reach, speed, strength, and _experience _which Harry could only envy.

There were reasons why Harry never really won any of their mock spars in the past.

His second thought, passing directly on the heels of the first, was '_but I don't want to_.' He wasn't too certain just what 'defeat' and 'serious battle' meant to Darksun. He could only suppose that it was several levels above the sparring they already did. If Dark wasn't afraid to bruise or draw blood in mere practice, then what did battle entail? Broken bones? Deep wounds? Dismemberment? …_Death_?

Harry had only just kind-of-sort-of compared his soul's sword to an older brother. There was no way he was going to engage in bloody battle against Dark if he could help it.

"_I'll train you towards it,_" Darksun said, filling the shocked silence his last statement left behind. He seemed almost oblivious to Harry's tumbling thoughts. "_I'm not telling you to draw a blade right here and now. Besides, I want to see if we can't get a Bankai – a level above the initial release – out of this as well. For that you've got to understand me, be able to manifest me outside, lots of other stuff. It'll take some time._"

"How much time?" Harry asked numbly, still trying to work his head around everything that had been stuffed into it.

"_As much as we need, I hope,_" Darksun said with a shrug. "_There's not a definite time limit. I'll try to keep control of my instincts, but still…let's aim for a year. Sooner if possible._"

"A year," Harry repeated. One year to either reach a point where he could fight…and somehow defeat…his own soul's sword, or to figure out another way around all this, one that wouldn't involve bloodshed.

"_Yeah, so you'll have to take this seriously. Sorry, but…_"

"No, I get it," Harry said, though half his mind was still on the question of how to go around Darksun's plan. "Seriously."

Darksun huffed in a relieved fashion and grinned.

"_Well, good. Glad that's done. So…ready to practice?_"

"Huh?" Harry said, looking up…just in time to duck and tumble away from a fist which had _not_ been anywhere near his head a moment before. He regained his feet in time to hastily dodge a side kick.

"I wasn't ready!" Harry protested, though the instant he did so he could hear Darksun's typical response in his memories.

"_Sometimes you won't be_," the sword replied, true to form and right on cue. He smirked, flash stepped around Harry's side, and pushed him so hard that he flew several meters through the air, thudding to earth with a yelp.

"_Get your head in here, Harry! Let's go!_"

Unfortunately and despite repeated orders to do so, Harry could never pull himself fully into the fight. As such, it was a rather mentally sore wizard who was finally allowed to drop off to sleep an hour later, and a slightly disappointed spirit blade who settled down in the central tree for his own brand of rest at the same time.

* * *

Harry woke up tired the next day, as well as the morning after that, and the morning after that. It wasn't true exhaustion, for while Darksun insisted on mindscape training every night before sleep he at least limited it to an hour each time. Still, the drowsiness was persistent enough to cause a few frustrating slip-ups on Harry's part, such as sleepily spreading blackberry jam across his eggs or the increasingly common error of walking into doorframes on his way into and out of the dorm bathrooms.

Thankfully, he always managed to wake up in time for classes and remain awake through the day – though there had been a close call or two in Divination – so at least his newly altered sleeping schedule didn't affect his grades or lose him house points.

Then, one week after his first real meeting with his parents, Harry had yet another Patronus lesson. Professor Lupin, looking a little more wan and pale than usual, closed the classroom door, moved behind the trunk, and prepared to throw it open.

"Ready?"

Harry raised his wand and nodded firmly.

The trunk opened, and a dementor rose from its depths. This time, no dying aura flickered into the air with it; Darksun was waiting deep inside the central world so he wouldn't interfere. The air froze, and crying, pleading voices began to claw their way up from the back of Harry's head. He focused, determined, on the sights of his parents' faces, smiling at him; their warm hugs enfolding him; their voices, not crying out in fear and desperation, but laughing richly, speaking gently and lovingly.

With all the force of will he could muster, Harry raised his wand and shouted the incantation:

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

Light exploded in front of him; he had to shield his eyes against its brilliance. By the time he blinked his vision clear again, it was over; the boggart-dementor was hanging feebly in the air, caught up on the antlers of a magnificent silver stag. The boggart twitched, then exploded into fat, squirming globules of darkness to flee through the air back into the safety of the trunk. The lid slammed shut, drawing Harry's attention briefly away from the beautiful animal before him.

Lupin was staring in stupification at the patronus.

"Prongs," he whispered, raising a hand slowly, as though to touch its nose. Just as he started to reach forward, the patronus disintegrated into pale whisps, vanishing into thin air. Lupin's breath caught in his throat audibly; his hand was trembling. Harry shifted uncomfortably, uncertain what to say, or if he should indeed say anything at all.

Then Lupin blinked rapidly, dropped his hand, and cleared his throat. He turned away quickly, bending to check that the lid of the trunk had shut properly.

"W-well done, Harry," he said, not brightly perhaps, but with a small measure of cheer. "I am _most_ impressed. Honestly, I expected you to take longer on this spell, and that if you ever got it at all; it's very high level. As a teacher, I'm very…_very _proud of you."

So quietly that Harry was half-certain he wasn't meant to hear it, Lupin added: "He would have been, as well. So proud."

_I know,_ Harry thought, and he almost said it aloud. But he hesitated, and then the silence had stretched on too long to say anything except "thank you, sir."

"Not at all; you've more than earned it." Lupin turned back around, his expression and demeanor thoroughly back to normal. "Though I do suppose this means you no longer need my tutoring…oh, before I forget: here."

Harry reached up and caught the bar of Honeyduke's chocolate in an unconscious display of his Seeker reflexes.

"I really feel fine, sir," he protested, but Lupin made no move to take it back.

"Take a bit," Lupin said, unwrapping his own bar. "That dementor probably left a bit of a chill, even if you don't feel it right now. Besides, I think your success is worth a little celebration."

Relenting, Harry unwrapped a corner and took a bite. To his surprise, the chocolate did seem to warm him up; as Professor Lupin predicted, the dementor had left a chill which Harry's elated mind had not yet registered.

For a while they ate their chocolate together in silence. The quiet seemed to grow heavier and heavier with Harry's thoughts, and so at last he decided to share them with the only other person there at the moment.

"Professor? You…called my patronus 'Prongs.'"

Lupin paused in the midst of pulling the wrapper further down his chocolate bar.

"So I did," he replied after a moment.

"That was my dad's nickname, wasn't it? So his animagus form…"

"Yes. Yes, it was a stag."

"But I've never seen him like that, and when you and Sirius told me about it you never really mentioned his form. So how's my patronus shaped that way?"

Lupin re-wrapped the remaining half of his chocolate and laid it aside.

"Well," he started, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped, "for the first thing, you technically _have_ seen him as Prongs. When you were very, very small, he used to transform in the sitting room for your amusement. I don't doubt he would have had you riding upon his back if Lily didn't insist otherwise, an infant as you were and all. You used to love it when he changed – it made you laugh in such delight."

A vaguely embarrassed little half-smile crossed Harry's face, echoed by the more wistful one on Professor Lupin's.

"Magic can recall things which your own mind cannot – and even without this knowledge embedded in you, I'm certain that the spell would still have come out this way. A patronus embodies that which makes you feel safe. It is, by its nature, a protector. If you pardon the personification, the magic knows what it's doing, as long as you use it correctly."

"Oh," Harry said. It made some sense at least. But then…

"Why was it just my dad? I mean, what about my mum?"

Lupin shook his head helplessly.

"I'm afraid I don't know. That's just the way the patronus works: there's only ever one form for a wizard. It may change with time, but never does it summon multiple forms. As for why him rather than her…perhaps you somehow feel closer to your father's memory than your mother's, or you feel he could protect you better. Or perhaps not – perhaps there is some other reason which I cannot guess. I'm hardly an expert, Harry, and cleverer theorists than I have argued for centuries over such spells. Magic is a mystery, even to us."

"It's all right; I was just wondering." Harry assured him.

"Curiosity can be a good trait. Now…I have to admit that I am somewhat at a loss. I was prepared to schedule these lessons for the rest of the year if need be, and you've proven yourself quite proficient in merely a week."

Lupin stood and patted the lid of the locked chest beside him. The thing thudded and trembled violently as the boggart threw itself about on the inside.

"I'll have to deal with this soon," he mused. "But first…I'd like you to test your Patronus one more time. Oh, not now," Lupin added quickly as Harry stood and began to draw his wand. "You've earned time off. And not next week, as I feel I'm coming down with a bit of a cold, and I'd rather not make an appointment I might not manage to keep…would mid-November suit you?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Harry replied. In truth, that scheduling was better than it would have been if they'd met next week – after all, the game against Slytherin was to be played that day, and with the way Wood was working the team to the bone lately Harry would likely be too exhausted to even think about facing down even a boggart-dementor. "It's great, actually. Thanks, Professor."

Lupin waved the thanks off modestly.

"It's my pleasure, Harry. I'll see you in two weeks' time."

As Harry walked back to his dorms, he looked ahead in pleasure to the upcoming game, his last Patronus lesson, and more immediately, another visit to the Soul Society and his parents. He definitely had things he wanted to share with them, plus one curiosity to put to his father once the conversation got around to it…

* * *

"My animagus form?"

Harry nodded, taking another gulp of softly steaming tea. They were back in the same late-open shop he had met his parents in last week, seated around a small table near a wall. James Potter ran a hand through his messy black hair, making clumps of it stand on end and emphasising the faintly perplexed expression that crossed his face in that moment.

"What brought this on?"

"I'm just wondering," Harry said. "Professor Lupin said you could change into a stag. Did you lose that when you d—when you came here?"

"No. Well, not exactly. A couple things changed, but…" he trailed off and shrugged a little self-consciously. Lily snickered lightly beside him.

"What?" Harry asked, catching the laugh.

"Nothing," James replied hurriedly. "So, anyway, isn't it about time for the first Quidditch game of the season by now? Who's playing?"

For a moment, Harry was torn between one of his favorite subjects and curiosity over what about his father's animagus form had prompted his mother's laughter. Quidditch won out in the end.

"Gryffindor against Slytherin. The game's next week, actually. Wood's been running us ragged."

"You're on the team?" James asked excitedly.

"Yeah. I didn't tell you last time?"

"I'm afraid not," Lily replied, sipping her own tea. "We could only talk for a few hours, after all."

"What position?" James jumped in. "Chaser, maybe? Or with your build, seeker?"

"Seeker," Harry replied, and with a little more pride than he usually afforded himself he continued, "youngest in a century. I joined the team my first year."

James' excited whoop startled the single night staff member and the other two patrons in the store, but he remained firmly unashamed of the slight scene he was causing. Lily, on the other hand, was a little less enthused.

"First year? What were they thinking? Oh, calm down James!"

"How can I? My son's a _prodigy_!"

Harry felt himself flush at the words. It was Quidditch, and though he placed the game on a much higher pedestal than some (such as Hermione and, to some extent, Darksun) he wasn't about to accept a near-genius status just because he could handle a broom better than most. Even so, hearing his father's praises felt unimaginably pleasant. Harry didn't want to ever let this feeling go.

Lily sighed at her husband's antics and shook her head.

"Can you promise me you've been careful on the field?"

Harry nodded quickly, mentally discounting the time Quirrel had cursed his broom to buck him off and the occasion with Dobby's bludger. Both of those had occurred with a great deal of outside influence and really had nothing to do with his own flying skills…in fact, it was due to his skill that he hadn't gotten anything worse than a few bruises and a broken arm between the two incidents.

Not that he was going to worry his mother over such things. They were in the past, after all, and weren't that bad when compared to facing Voldemort or a Basilisk.

"All right, then. As long as you stay safe, I can't very well complain about you doing something you love, can I?" Lily smiled. "You're too much your father's son in some ways."

"There's no such thing as too much of me," James protested.

Lily patted his arm, not bothering to reply verbally.

"Good luck with your game, Harry. I truly wish we could see it – you'll have to tell us everything you can when you visit next week. All right?"

"All right."

* * *

_I can hardly see a thing!_

Grey rain lashed against him, pelting his face and, more importantly, his glasses, reducing his visibility to vague streaks and blocks of light and shadow. Harry kept blinking instinctively, but it did predictably little to help the situation. How he was supposed to see the snitch in all of this, he didn't know.

A dark blur of motion caught the corner of his eye and he dropped under a bludger. A red streak passed up over his other side. With a heavy crack, the bludger went flying away into the obscuring rain.

"All right, Harry?" shouted the twin hovering just over him – whether it was Fred or George Harry couldn't even begin to guess.

"Mostly," Harry replied with a grimace.

"Might like to get a move on finding the snitch? It's gotten a bit damp out here…"

"I'm trying," Harry replied. Another flicker appeared somewhere behind him; he turned, saw the second bludger, and rolled in midair to avoid it. The Weasley twin met the ball again, smacking it away with a grunt.

"Back to the grind," he sighed, and zoomed off in pursuit of the bludger, intent on whalloping it toward a member of the opposing team. Harry took off, flying upward to scan the field from a higher vantage point.

So far, there wasn't really much to tell his parents. Between being unable to see the goalposts unless he was practically on top of them and bending most of his concentration on searching for the golden snitch, Harry hadn't been able to see much of the game. The crowd had roared a few times, but it was beyond him to guess who had scored what.

Harry caught sight of yellow through the rain, but it was just a member of the Hufflepuff team zooming beneath him.

That was one thing to share, he mused a little gloomily: Gryffindor's opponent had been unexpectedly changed at the last minute. Supposedly this was due to the injury of Malfoy's arm, but all of Gryffindor knew better. Slytherin just didn't want to play in this weather. Wiping more water off of his glasses, Harry certainly understood why. Of course, understanding it didn't mean he _liked_ or _agreed with_ what they did. Especially when he remembered Malfoy's smug laughter when the teams first headed out of the Hall that morning.

He had circled the pitch twice more when he gradually became aware of a new sound in the gale: the piercing shriek of Hooch's whistle. He neared the ground and peered through the rain to see Wood standing below, waving his arms over his head like a floppy red windmill. Harry dropped to the ground, ducked beneath a truly enormous umbrella with the rest of his team, and took off his glasses to dry them as much as possible.

"What's the score?" he asked immediately.

"We're fifty points up, but if we don't get the snitch soon this could last all night."

"I'm trying," Harry said defensively, waving his glasses. "I can't see a thing with these on!"

Then, so suddenly that he half-wondered where she'd learned to Flash-step, Hermione was behind him with her cloak held over her head.

"Here, I have an idea! Harry, your glasses…"

Without a thought, he handed them over, watching blurrily as she fiddled with them for a moment, tapping her wand to the glass and muttering "_Impervius_."

"I should have thought of it before," she said, passing them back into Harry's hands. "The spell will repel water!"

He replaced the glasses and had to blink; he was seeing more clearly than he had since leaving the changing rooms.

"Brilliant!" Wood cried after Hermione as she ran back to the stands. "Absolutely brilliant! All right, now that's sorted…"

The Weasley twins, who had just finished wringing more water out of their cloaks than Harry would have thought possible, grumbled mightily at the thought of leaving the umbrella's shelter again, but leave it they did when Hooch's whistle resounded once more.

"And they're off again…" Harry heard as he drove upward past the commentary box. Soon enough, however, Lee's words were lost to him once more in the pounding gale, and he was back to straining for a flash of gold in the gloom. It was easier with Hermione's spell on his glasses, but he still had to deal with the wet, the cold, and the driving rain.

The clouds above him suddenly lit up with a lightning flash, and thunder rumbled in his ears. It was becoming dangerous fast…what would his mother think of these conditions?

He swerved around a stray Hufflepuff chaser and passed near the stands. Nothing good, he decided in answer to his hypothetical question.

The lightning lit up his surroundings again, and he became suddenly aware of a gigantic shape under an equally large umbrella on the top tier of seating – unmistakably Hagrid by the size alone – and beside him, sitting alert and erect, a massive black dog.

Harry's heart leapt and he grinned; despite the terrible weather, Sirius was there to watch his game.

A sudden shout behind him made him spin in midair. There, not too far away, a bigger blob of sodden yellow was diving quickly toward the ground, and before the yellow flew a speck of gold.

Diggory and the snitch.

Harry turned the Nimbus sharply downward in pursuit. He was gaining with every second, but as he went he felt something like a cold wind sweep across him. The air turned glacial; every droplet of rainwater stung like ice, and the twin roars of wind and crowd seemed to dim in his ears, becoming soft and fuzzy like a badly tuned radio. His heart froze in his chest; he knew that feeling, the wrong sort of echo in his senses, and his mind flew to his wand – the wand he had left in the pocket of his normal robes, hanging in the Gryffindor changing rooms…

"_Step aside…step aside, girl!_"

_No, no! Not again, not now!_

"_Not Harry, please, not Harry!"_

His sight grew dim; everything was silent. He was no longer focused on the snitch; he was no longer flying. Instead he was falling, and he could see nothing but the dark-robed figures on the ground, their faces turned up toward him. Some of them simply waited expectantly; others were lifting their rotting, skeletal hands in the air as though they wished to snatch him out of it early, as if he wasn't dropping fast enough. Their aura, concentrated by sheer numbers, hammered painfully against his senses. If it was a smell, his stomach would have revolted by then; as it was he felt ill and weak, like a helpless insect caught in a spider's web.

Darksun rose in his soul yet again, but he couldn't help; he was just as afraid as Harry was though he tried to hide it underneath burning anger and frustration.

"_Yame—ichigo!"_

Harry didn't understand the words, but he knew the desperation in them too well. It was exactly the same…

"_Have mercy, have mercy!"_

She was sobbing. She shouldn't be sobbing.

His wand. He needed his wand, or his sword…not this broom, a useless shaft of wood which was even now slipping from his numb fingers. He needed to stop her crying, her pleas. He needed…

A silver glow flashed briefly across his vision. The dark mass below him blurred, scattering like ashes in a wind before it, giving him a brief and clear view of the ground rushing closer and closer.

And then he was aware of nothing.

Harry woke an hour later, sore and disoriented but intact, to increasingly bad news. They'd lost the game; Diggory caught the snitch moments before realizing that Harry had fallen. Nobody blamed him, but Harry couldn't help feeling horribly disappointed in himself – the first game his godfather had watched, the first one his parents would hear of, and this happened.

Then Hermione had tipped a bag of wooden splinters onto his bed, some of them still retaining their old glossy sheen on one curved, smooth side or another. Picking through them, Harry could even find a few with the remnants of golden lettering; a couple of lines which might have been the middle of an 'N,' a dot which belonged over an 'i,' the top curves of a couple of '0's. In a contest between a drifting broom and the most violent tree on Hogwarts grounds, the tree had won beyond the slightest of doubts.

He hadn't let Madam Pomfrey throw the pieces away. His Nimbus was beyond any hope of repair, and he knew it was silly of him, but it felt as though he'd lost a dear friend. This had been his first broom; it had served him well even against the faster, newer models of Slytherin's team. The nurse had eventually given up in the face of his stubbornness, sentencing him to a weekend in the Hospital Wing before retiring late in the night.

Once he was certain she was gone and wouldn't be returning, Harry pressed a hand to the soul pendant he still wore under his shirt.

"_You're still going?"_

_I promised_, Harry replied silently, and with a quick burst of power his soul separated from his body.

"_You shouldn't push yourself,_" Darksun admonished as Harry moved around the hospital beds.

_Bit rich from you…_

"_What's that supposed to mean?_"

Harry drew the sword at his side, the blade glinting bright silver in the moonlight, and thrust it before him, turning it like a key. The air around the sword shimmered, coalescing into a stone archway filled with brilliant light. A black butterfly fluttered out of it to circle Harry's head.

_You've been pushing me lots lately._

"_That's different_," Darksun protested. "_It's important, and besides, I wouldn't make you practice if you're this exhausted."_

_This _is_ important, _Harry replied, a little snappish at the insinuation that his training with Darksun held greater vitality than meeting his own parents. He stepped through the archway without a second thought, following the butterfly through. _And I'm fine._

"_I didn't mean it like that_."

"Why don't you like them, anyhow?" Harry muttered.

"_It's not that I don't like them. I just think you've been through a lot today. You need to take a break. This isn't helping._"

"I can't. I promised."

The end of the passage came up. Without missing a beat, Harry removed the spell his mother prepared and cracked it open, passing through the Center completely unnoticed thanks to its effects.

"_Che. Whatever," _Darksun suddenly said. "_Do what you like, I guess. You're the boss."_

The sudden turnaround made Harry frown in confusion.

"Dark? What-?"

"_I'll be down here if you need me or something,"_ he said, his voice fading away. "_Later._"

Harry shook his head and walked on gloomily. It seemed as though he could make no one happy that day…least of all himself.

Days passed, then weeks. The numb feeling of his first Quidditch loss and his first broom's destruction faded as life went on, though between Wood's increased practice sessions and the old school broom he was forced to use during them Harry couldn't really forget about it. His teammates kept pressing him to buy a new broom, lending him catalogues and waxing eloquent on the different models and their strengths and weaknesses. Harry let them, but he never really got around to making a choice.

Not that it mattered too much; he had the entire month and more to decide after all.

Lily and James had been sympathetic when he told them (briefly and with fairly little detail) about the loss.

"It's part of life," James had said seriously. "You've got ups and downs. This was a bad one, but it's not rock bottom at least."

"Things will start to look up again," Lily added. The moment she'd sensed Harry's distress she had tucked him into her side, rocking slightly. The warmth and the motion soothed him, though he half-felt he probably was supposed to be too old to enjoy it. "Trust me."

Harry had to be woken up before he could return to Hogwarts.

* * *

As it neared Christmas holidays and the school began to buzz with high spirits, a highly welcome piece of news came in the form of a _Daily Prophet_ headline.

**Peter Pettigrew Found Alive: Black framed for crimes?**

_Finally_, Harry thought when Hermione showed him the paper she had borrowed from an upperclassman. The story was admittedly sparse in new details, mentioning only that the Ministry of Magic had confirmed the identity of Pettigrew and had him in holding, pending a trial. Most of it was rehashing old facts and supposition, including a listing of Sirius' accused crimes, an account of his imprisonment without trial, and his friendship with Harry's parents. All the while, the _Prophet_ hinted at the possibility that Black could have been innocent all along.

The bit about Sirius' past relationship with the Potters, including his status as Harry's godfather, at least explained the number of stares and whispers directed at Harry himself that morning.

"Well, that's that," Hermione stated matter-of-factly, folding the newspaper back up and passing it back to the fifth year who had lent it to her. "I suppose we now wait for the trial and verdict…the Ministry should be getting on with it soon, now that it's public knowledge."

"Don't suppose Hagrid's got a copy yet?" Ron asked around his bacon and eggs. "Spect _he'd_ be interested."

"Yeah," Harry grinned, "he probably would."

Harry had the impression that everything was moving back up in that moment, just as his mother had predicted. That impression was blindsided the next instant by Hermione.

"Speaking of Hagrid, Buckbeak's preliminary hearing should be soon. The Ministry won't be putting a halt on it because of this, you know. Do you think we have enough case information yet?"

Harry bit back a groan, as he felt bad about begrudging Hagrid and Buckbeak any aid. Ron had no such inhibitions.

"We've gone through the library twice already!"

An exaggeration; they'd gone through the section on Magical Creatures twice. This could hardly be called the entire library. Hermione didn't bother pointing this out, however; instead, she shot Ron a rather poisonous look as she speared a slice of toast with her fork.

"If you don't want to help, then I'm sure Hagrid will understand."

"Blimey, Hermione, it's not that…"

"What is it, then?"

"It's just…it's…" Ron cast Harry a silent cry for help.

"We haven't written that essay for Snape yet," Harry offered after a frantic search through his memory for anything that might help. "And that list of symbols and definitions for Divination. And…lots of other stuff."

Ron moaned and pushed his plate out of the way to thump his head against the table.

"If you simply did things as they were assigned, you wouldn't be dealing with a backlog of homework," Hermione informed him primly. "And anyway, I don't see you having any cause to complain. I'm taking more classes than either of you, and I'm managing just fine."

Hermione checked her watch and stood up.

"Well, I'm off. See you in Charms, Harry, Ron."

She slung her bulging bookbag over her shoulder and strode away. Ron lifted his face from the tabletop in time to see her pass out of sight into the Entrance Hall.

"I don't get how she does it," Ron complained. "There's just not that many hours in a day!"

"Don't know," Harry replied. It was a good question, and one which the boys had pondered on and off almost since the beginning of the school year. They weren't any closer to figuring out Hermione's impossible schedule than before, and Harry for one couldn't muster the time or curiosity to tackle that mystery head-on. Given the fact that his life had suddenly become filled with various slave drivers – all of his teachers, Oliver Wood, and Darksun immediately came to mind – and complicated further by other side projects or enjoyments – the research for Buckbeak's trial, visiting his parents and Sirius (and, by proxy, Hagrid), and spending time with his friends – Harry felt as though he hardly had a moment to sleep. Time to worry over Hermione's impossible schedule simply could not be squeezed in.

Harry glanced at his watch quickly, standing up and lifting his bag. "Reckon we've got enough time to visit the Owlery? I want to send Hagrid a note about the _Prophet_. Just in case."

Ron shrugged, shoved half a slice of toast into his mouth at once, and picked up his own belongings.

"Sh'r, wy-na?"

The weekend before break marked another Hogsmeade trip, and another day in the Soul Society. Harry waved his friends goodbye, watched them move across the school lawn and out of sight, and started to head back to the Gryffindor dorms. He hardly made it out of the Entrance Hall before he found himself accosted by a familiar pair of red-haired twins.

"Harry, mate!" said the one with the 'F' knitted into his sweater; Harry decided to think of him as Fred, even though he knew full well that the twins were in the habit of exchanging their labeled clothing.

"Thought you'd be skulking about here now," the other said, throwing an arm over Harry's shoulders. Fred did the same from the other side, pinning him between the two.

"Got something for you."

"Call it an early Christmas present."

"But it's too open, here," Fred said, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

"So off we go..."

Harry didn't have a choice; the twins whisked him into an unused classroom and shut the door before he could so much as voice agreement or protest.

"Okay," he said, ducking away from their grip. "What's this about?"

"We noticed you've been missing out on the highlight of third year—"

"—Hogsmeade, of course—"

"—And we thought it terribly unfair—"

"—Not your fault your relatives are pricks—"

"—So we thought we'd do our part as proper upperclassmen and the brothers of your best friend and extend you a boon."

"You need guidance, young Harry, and who better to give it than us?" said George, spreading his arms wide with what might have been meant to be a saintly expression on his face.

"There might be a few better, actually," Harry said, and Fred immediately swooned, forcing George to leap forward and catch him.

"The poor lad, he's delusional!" Fred moaned.

"Eh, he does have a point, though."

"Traitor!"

"Don't forget…_them_."

Fred straightened immediately.

"Ah, _them. _Too true, brother mine. You make a good point."

"What point?" Harry interrupted, torn between feeling amused and a little annoyed; he could have been halfway back to the dorms by this time, and thereby that much closer to his trip to Soul Society, something which he truly looked forward to. At the same time, the twins could be an act in and of themselves.

"A little story first, I think," George said. Harry leaned against a dusty desk and waited.

"Back in our first year, when we were young and innocent—" Harry couldn't help but laugh in disbelief—"we got in a spot of trouble with Filch."

"For some reason, the dungbombs in the corridor didn't amuse him quite as much as it did us."

"So he dragged us to his office and started threatening the usual—"

"Detention—"

"Disembowelment—"

"When Fred here suddenly noticed a drawer in his filing cabinet which was marked '_Confiscated and Highly Dangerous_.'"

"No way," Harry said, starting to grin. George shrugged in response.

"Well, what would you have done?"

"George dropped another dungbomb as a distraction, I whipped open the cabinet and pulled out…_this_."

With a flourish, Fred withdrew an old and worn square of parchment from his pocket, handing it to Harry with a sort of reverence. Harry took it and unfolded the square, flipping it over and turning it around in search of some sort of mark. There was nothing; though certainly old, the parchment was as blank as if it had never been used.

"This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school combined," George said, regarding the parchment fondly. Harry couldn't help but feel skeptical.

"You're winding me up."

"Are we?"

Fred drew his wand and tapped the top edge of the parchment lightly.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he intoned. From the point his wand had touched, lines began to spread in an intricate spiderweb of boxes, slants and spirals. Words appeared, little banners which moved around between the lines on the parchment. And there, right at the top, ornate letters spelled out the words:

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs proudly present THE MAURAUDER'S MAP._

Harry's heart skipped a beat and his breath caught in his throat.

"He caught on fast," Fred approved.

"You know what you're looking at, then?" George prodded.

_Something my father and his best friends made_, Harry thought, but the comment seemed out of place, so he glanced over the parchment to collect his thoughts.

"It's a map. Of Hogwarts. And it shows the people inside…"

"Not only that," George said, coming around to Harry's left and pointing out several faintly-inked lines which belonged to no corridor Harry had ever seen. "Look here: secret passages. Even Filch doesn't know about these."

"Pranks were never easier after we discovered this. Can you imagine? Always knowing when the coast is clear, always having a handy escape route which none of the teachers knew of…it was a dream."

"So…so why're you giving it to me?"

"We discussed it long and hard, and we decided you needed it more than we did." Fred said solemnly.

"Besides, we'd like a challenge in our last couple years of schooling. The map almost makes things too easy; we even gave ourselves handicaps now and again by not using it. What's two and a half terms straight?"

"You just swear you'll use it well, and all is good."

"I will," Harry said, his fingers tightening on the parchment.

"Good fellow."

"Now, these passages are no good – blocked in. These Filch knows about, and _this _one starts under that statue of the one-eyed witch here and ends up…"

"In the cellar of Honeydukes, Hogsmeade village."

"Trust the map; it'll tell you what to do."

"To deactivate it, just tap it with your wand and say 'Mischief managed.'"

"Wipes it right clean."

With that, the twins suddenly moved to the door.

"Now, Harry—"

"—make us proud!"

And then they were gone.

Harry looked down at the map in his hands, wondering briefly what he should do. They were expecting him in the center, and would surely wonder when he didn't turn up, but a key to Hogsmeade had just literally been put into his hands. He hovered for several moments more, agonizing over his choice, before he tapped the map with his wand, murmured the closing phrase, and left the room.

Harry almost ran all the way up to Gryffindor tower and closed himself in the dorm. After arranging his body carefully in his bed so that it might appear, at first glance, to be sleeping, Harry quickly opened the archway and stepped through.

He barely managed to stop himself from cracking his notice-me-not canister open before emerging into the light of Soul Society's day. After so many weeks of sneaking in at night, it had become a habit.

"Morning," the Asterope squad member said with a nod.

"Hello," Harry replied, looking around in search of someone who knew him, someone he could talk to…

"Looking for something? The Chief's probably on training ground seven with some of the rookies," the man offered helpfully.

"Number seven?" Harry asked, momentarily confused. What would the members of the sixth squad be doing on the seventh squad's training ground? The areas weren't exclusive by any means, but squads generally stuck with their own grounds if they could manage it.

"Yeah. Ours got trashed just yesterday; a whole group figured out their initial releases at different times this last month and decided to get together for a test run. It's actually pretty impressive how much damage they managed to cause."

"Oh. That make sense. Thanks," Harry replied. He started to walk away, waving to the day guard as he went.

"Try not to get in their way too much!" the man called after Harry. The young wizard almost stopped walking to gape over his shoulder at him.

_How'd he know_…?

Darksun nudged his attention forward again.

"_Look where you walk. And we were going to pass the sixth's grounds on the way to seventh's. Makes sense we'd stop and see_."

No more words passed between them until they rounded the last corner before the grounds. There, Harry stopped short, and there were very few words that could be said in that first instant.

"Woah," Harry murmured, and felt Darksun's wordless agreement in the back of his mind.

Originally, the grounds had simply been a great, rectangular field of packed dirt bordered by small round stones and set flush against the Center's outer wall. Equipment shacks had been built at intervals along the length of the field, one at either end and one in the center, to house training dummies and targets, reiatsu suppressors, regular weighted bands, and other assorted paraphernalia.

Now the grounds resembled little more than a piece of earth on a major faultline, one which had just gone off impressively. Canyons and cracks stretched across the field and out into the grass beyond it, huge craters and pits marred the dirt, and great boulders and hills of earth had been pushed up and scattered about to create a bizarre wasteland. Some of the exposed dirt and stone was charred black – evidence of a fire or lightning-based release or deathspell. The equipment shacks in the center and far right side of the field were obliterated save for a few sadly splintered boards embedded in the earth, and the left-most shack was little more than three walls and a sagging roof.

Around, through, and over the entire mess scurried bands of people, calling out loudly to each other over the constant chuff of shovels in dirt and the laborious grunts of those wielding them. Most of the people there wore clothing which Harry recognized as the casual half-tunics and pants which seemed to be favored in the Ring, save one rather miserable-looking group of individuals spread out across the field. These were dressed in sweat-drenched blue shirts and had black coats tied around their waists, shoulders, or even draped over rubble, and were doing most of the menial work of moving rocks and earth about.

"Clear way, kid!" shouted a harsh voice from somewhere behind Harry; he turned his head just in time to scamper aside as a pair of men hurried by, supporting several very long wooden boards between them. A third one following them with a large wooden bucket of nails paused for a moment to wipe his shining red face clear of sweat.

"Mess, innit?" he asked with a grin and a nod toward the former field.

"Yeah," Harry could only say in agreement.

"You believe me when I say this's an improvement?" the man laughed as he trotted on after those with the planks of wood.

Harry took in another eyeful of the destruction and, in doing so, spotted a familiar face.

"John?"

The lanky Asterope runner looked up and, upon seeing Harry, waved wearily. John Tanner was as red-faced and sweat-soaked as most of the others working in the area, despite the weak winter sunlight and cool air. He seemed glad of an excuse to stop shifting rocks.

"H'lo. Thought you were only here the summer?"

"I'm visiting on my free weekends. You're helping out here?"

John blew his blond bangs out of his face with a puff of air which might have been a laugh if it had more energy.

"You could say that. See the round scorch marks on the wall over there?"

Harry looked and noticed them almost immediately. Scattered between the lines and shapeless blobs of black were spidery dots, perfectly circular in form and slightly faded at the edges, as though they were darkened impact craters rather than burnt stone.

"Those were mine," John continued with more smug pride than his situation called for. As though he realized this, his tone became a touch more sullen. "I have to scrub them off once we've got the ground levelled out."

"Yours?" Harry repeated, "So your sword woke up?"

John grinned with pride.

"Yup."

"What's he like?"

"She, actually. Her name's Blue Thunder, but she's more level-headed than I'd've expected a lightning-based blade to be. You and I've got to spar…once I get used to her attacks, anyhow."

Darksun made no objection, so Harry shrugged and nodded.

"Sounds good to me. I'm not staying long today, so you've probably got a couple months at least before I—"

"TANNER!" a man roared across the field. "NO MORE SLACKIN'! HOP TO IT, LICKETY-SPIT!"

The young man jerked in surprise and groaned.

"Sorry, Harry; can't talk anymore. Nice seeing you, though."

"Yeah, you too," Harry said, turning away as John bent back to the heavy stones he had been clearing from the former field. "See you!"

"S'long!" he grunted, and Harry left him to his forced labor.

"_So you really aren't staying here today?_" Darksun asked suddenly. Harry shook his head briefly.

"_Why not?_"

"Hogsmeade."

"_What about it?_"

Harry opted to reply silently. Everybody else around him might have a sword spirit living in their souls, but he'd never heard any of them openly communicating with theirs. It seemed some things were a little too weird no matter where you went.

_It's the map the twins gave me. I could go to Hogsmeade today – just for a few hours, until Hermione and Ron come back. I've never really seen the village before, and now I have the chance to, so…_

"_You're throwing away a great chance to train…because of a map which leads to a candy store?_"

_Don't phrase it like that, _Harry replied with a faint scowl. _You make it sound worse than it should._

"_I call it like I see it._"

_Then maybe you need glasses too._

Unfortunately, Darksun wasn't in the mood for humor.

"_I'm not joking around, Harry. Stay put. Train. Get a little spellwork done at least; it's at least one strength you have over me."_

_I will. Just not today. I've got time, and I've never been to Hogsmeade before. I just want to see what it's like._

"_I thought you said you were going to take this thing seriously,"_ Darksun said, his tone and the faint sense Harry had of him giving the impression of a glare and sternly folded arms.

_I am! It's just…_

"_I get it. Fine. But you'd better be ready to work harder than ever tonight. Understand?"_

_Yeah, I understand_, Harry replied in relief. Then, partly to appease Darksun somewhat and partly to save time, he practiced his flash-steps all the way to the seventh's grounds and, after letting Chief Davis know he had other things to do that day ("You came all the way here for that? We've really got to teach you how to use the butterflies to send messages…"), flash-stepped all the way back to the gate.

Once back in Hogwarts, however, all thoughts of practice or training fled Harry's mind, and Darksun didn't fail to notice.

_What the hell am I supposed to do with you, you idiot wizard?_

* * *

Harry dropped into his mndscape that night tired and slightly droopy-eyed after another very full day. Darksun decided he couldn't care less; Harry had promised to take this training seriously and do his best, and damned if he wasn't going to push his weilder to fulfill that promise.

Harry stretched easily, and Darksun wished he hadn't impatiently opted to wait for him at the base of the tree, in full view. If he'd at least started out hidden, he could have surprise-attacked the younger boy by this time and taught him how bad an idea it was to let his guard down, even in his own mind.

Especially around Darksun himself.

That lesson was going to take some time to properly sink in, the sword spirit thought ruefully, watching Harry amble over easily, stopping well within easy striking distance, even without a shunpo…

"What are we doing this time, Dark?"

"_Assessment,_" the sword grunted in reply.

"Assessment?"

"_What are you, a parrot_?"

"No, I meant, what do you mean, _assessment_?"

"_Exactly what it sounds like. You're not ready to take me on, but I need to see where you stand now. Attack me. Give it everything you've got. I'll go easy on you and test your skills. Whenever you're ready_."

Harry drew the sword at his side reluctantly.

"What if I hurt—"

"_You won't! Besides, with thoughts like those, there's no way you'll ever win. Now, attack._"

Still, Harry hesitated.

"You don't have a sword," he pointed out, and Darksun felt like slamming the heel of his hand into his forehead.

"_Who am I, Harry_?"

"You're…Darksun?" Harry hedged, apparently afraid it was a trick question.

"_And what is Darksun_?"

"You're…a spirit blade, hollow, huma—"

"_Right, right, enough, you got it in the first try. Now, if I'm a spirit blade, specifically the blade in your hands, and if I'm a stronger fighter than you right now as well, then how do you expect to just hurt me_?"

Harry finally charged and swung, but it was halfhearted at best. Darksun could easily have stepped out of the way, but he didn't bother. Instead, he raised his hand and stopped the edge of the blade with nothing but the pads of his fingers. It didn't even draw blood.

"_If_ _that's the best you can do, then why am I wasting my time_?" Darksun said with deliberate coldness, channelling every condescending git he had memory of facing mixed with a certain measure of his own personal pride. The act didn't make him particularly happy with himself, but if it woke Harry up, then he'd work with it.

Faster than lightning could strike, Darksun shifted his grip on the sword and twisted, manipulating the weapon and, by extention, Harry's entire arm. The boy quickly released his grip on the sword to avoid getting his arm twisted behind his back, and in another flash he had frozen, aware only of cold metal resting beside his neck.

"_This isn't any good, Harry_," Darksun said ominously. "I _didn't even have to move my feet. One swing from you, a couple seconds' time, and you lost. I know you can do better. Try again_."

Darksun flipped the sword around, offering the hilt back to Harry, who took it with a deep breath. Suddenly, he lunged forward, whipping the blade up and across in a fast slash. Darksun leaned back in a dodge and was impressed to find that he felt the breeze of the blow pass over his face. With the start of a grin, he set to dancing around Harry's strikes, slapping away ones which came too close to dodge and swinging back with his fists when he found an opening too large to ignore.

Gradually, their movements became faster, more intense. Darksun gave up the pretense of the cold, superior warrior he was not and summoned his own version of his sword-self, already in its initial release. He was pleased to see Harry skip back to gain distance and release as well.

_Finally, he's taking it seriously!_

Grinning more widely now, Darksun leapt forward, forcing Harry to block, twist, parry, and counter before he finally relented and allowed his weilder to enjoy the upper hand for a while.

_Not bad, _he granted. Harry wasn't a particularly difficult opponent, but he would grow into it. With this much potential, how could he not? It might not even be too long before he was materializing Darksun in preparation for Bankai…

Darksun lost himself in thought for a moment too long. He missed a block, and Harry's forward momentum was too much force for the boy to pull back on, even as he noticed, horrified, what was happening.

The sword stuck several inches into Darksun's side, just under the lowest of his ribs and far on the left side of his stomach. Blood spread in a sticky stain throughout the dark material through which the sword had struck, and both boy and blade stood looking at it for a long moment.

Abruptly, Harry released the blade and scrambled back.

"I'm sorry!"

"_Don't be_," Darksun interrupted, calmly reaching down and pulling the blade out. Blood spurted after it for just a moment, then gradually it stopped flowing altogether. He still retained a little more of his hollow than just the instincts and memories; though his regeneration was no longer instant, it was still quick enough and thorough enough to be very useful. Besides, what he said earlier was true; this sword was him. It couldn't really hurt him if he didn't let it.

"_Let's keep going,_" he said, holding the sword out once again. This time, Harry made no move to take it.

"Is there another way?" the boy suddenly blurted out. Darksun could only stare.

"_What?_"

"I mean…I don't _want_ to fight you, or beat you, or anything. So isn't there something else we can do?"

"_What the—no, there isn't another way! Didn't I say something like this before? The problem is the hollow instincts craving power. They can only get switched to neutral when they see something stronger than them, and that something has got to be you._"

"Couldn't we…I don't know, seal them or something?"

"_They're part of me_," Darksun replied, completely deadpan. "_You want to seal them away? You'll wind up sealing me away. Entirely. For all I know, perhaps even forever. You want that?"_

Harry shook his head.

"_I know what I'm talking about here. A hollow isn't something you can suppress with your force of will alone; I know that as fact from both sides of the fence. I'm doing all I can by training you and giving you a chance here. Quit beeing moody and take it already_."

Darksun brandished the sword once again, holding the hilt out toward Harry, but the boy shook his head and backed away another step. Darksun scowled and dropped both swords he held completely; they vanished in dark fire, leaving both he and Harry unarmed. This was not for Harry's comfort, however, and to prove that point Darksun began to advance menacingly toward Harry, forcing him to back up across the ground they'd covered in the first part of their spar.

"_So, what? You're going to refuse to fight because you got a lucky shot in? It's not solved anything yet; I've not staked myself in battle against you."_

"I won't fight you," Harry said resolutely.

"_You're giving up_?"

"No."

"_You're turning tail and running away? What the hell's wrong with you, it's a little blood! That's all! Nothing you haven't seen before."_

"Bloodied noses don't count," Harry said stubbornly. "And that's all I've given you before."

"_I've explained all of this several times now. You can't seriously expect me to believe those are your arguments for dropping out? I'm fine. You're fine. We still need to finish this."_

"And I'm telling you: I won't fight you! I won't try to hurt you, or beat you, or seal you away. You don't do that to family!"

Darksun stopped abruptly.

"_Family? What the?_"

"So maybe you're not exactly 'family,' but I don't care. You're close enough to a brother in a way. That's why I can't fight." Harry explained, crossing his arms in a show of stubborn bravado to cover his self-consciousness. "And you can't make me."

For a moment, Darksun was lost in a confusing tangle of emotions, foremost among them a sinking realization that nothing was going right. Right alongside this was a warmth he wished he didn't feel, because that warmth made the guilt that followed all the more intense.

"_This is gonna hurt me more than you_," he murmured, too softly for Harry to properly hear the words. Then, without any further warning, his face dropped into its deepest scowl and black fire flared around him. Instinctively, he reached deep into himself for all the frustrated anger of the shinigami and all the burning hatred of the hollow, and he mixed them together in the most terrifying aura he had ever released.

Harry barely had time to feel a flash of fear before Darksun vanished from his sight. In even less time, the dark spirit appeared at his side, one hand hooking itself around Harry's throat, and the ground flew away from his feet. He hit the solid bole of the lone tree behind him harder than he really wanted to think about, choking and kicking against his attacker instinctively.

"_Would a brother do this?_" hissed Darksun's voice, but it was higher and echoed more than usual, and the tone was mocking rather than sarcastic. Harry opened his eyes, blinked back stars, and quickly closed them again.

Darksun's yellow eyes had unnerved him the first time he was caught in their glare. Since that day, Harry had gradually gotten used to the softly glowing color and didn't really mind it anymore. But now…now the yellow was surrounded by black instead of white, and somehow it was even worse than he ever remembered.

"_No, he wouldn't! I'm not your brother, Harry; as it stands now, I might not even be a friend. THIS is the instinct I want to control. How's that for a wake-up call?"_

The hand around his neck tightened slightly, as though to remind him what was pinning him to the tree. Harry choked and tried to pry the fingers away with both of his hands, but it was like trying to bend solid steel.

"_You're weak, Harry. You're weak and you think you understand things you've got no idea about. I could take over right now. I could always have taken over; I didn't, in part because I thought you deserved a chance. I still think so. But what good is it if you continuously throw that chance away?"_

The hand's grip slackened just enough to allow Harry a little more air. He cracked his eyes open again, only to see that utterly _wrong_ gold-on-black gaze boring into his own. He felt like a tiny animal before a predator; he shook, wriggled, and kicked again, gasping for breath all the while. Even the kicks which struck Darksun seemed to have no effect, and his heart sank; was he honestly as weak and ineffective as Darksun was saying?

"_Some people say the world is 'kill or be killed.' I don't go that far, but the principle still exists._"

Darksun lifted his free hand, and his blade form shimmered into view in it. Harry struggled harder, disbelieving and terrified and half-certain he was caught in a nightmare and none of it was real. He couldn't even summon the will to speak, to make so much as a sound. The sword rose, tip pointed at his head. Harry flinched as the blade drove forwards, and bark hit the side of his face; Darksun had pierced nothing but the tree.

"_Knowing that might have been your head," _the sword growled softly, _"knowing that I'm perfectly capable – right here, right now – of pinning you to this tree of yours through your gut like a bug…knowing that I can do any of this and then go on to take over everything of yours…can you still say you won't fight me?"_

At last, Harry found his voice.

"No…stop…let go."

For a moment, Harry was afraid that Darksun would only push him further up the tree – or, worse, that he would yank the sword out and make good on his threat to pin him there for good – but after a tense silence the sword suddenly jerked his hand away. Harry fell forward into the grass, gasping and trying to stop the waves of tremors that had come over him.

"_Get it now?_"

Darksun's voice was back to normal – just a little wavery and moderately deep – but Harry couldn't bring himself to look up at him just yet. He nodded to the ground, massaging his neck as he breathed.

"_Good. Now, get out._"

Harry looked up then, mouth opening in question, but he stopped cold at the scowl on Darksun's face. It was almost stern, and it made Harry wonder just how wrong he must have been to say and do the things he had, because Darksun never really looked like that.

"_Get out,_" Darksun repeated, "_and don't come back unless you're ready – really ready – to take this thing seriously. I mean it; you make promises and then refuse to keep them like that again, and I'll really let loose on you."_

Harry stood up unsteadily and moved away from Darksun, though he kept a wary eye on the sword all the while, before he flickered upwards, out of his inner world and back into the relative safety of the outside. Once there, he curled up into his comforting bed, still rubbing his neck – though his physical form bore no mark and indeed hadn't even been touched, his mind still remembered the pressure there – and tried very hard to sort through how everything that had gone wrong all at once.

Harry had never been one to cry much, and he wasn't going to start now, but he still felt closer to tears than he had in some years.

* * *

**A/N2: **Hope this made up for the joke yesterday and for the wait before it. I also really hope everyone's more or less in character, even though the hard definition of 'in-character' has been changing for some of them. I don't think I have anything else to add here, other than another thank-you to those who have read and enjoyed this fanfiction. I like writing it, but you guys just make it so much more worth the work.

Here's a link to the chapter illustration I drew on Deviantart: http:/ oreramar. deviantart. com/#/ d3cyj5y

You know the drill: remove the spaces when you copy and paste.

Until next time, then!


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Here we are, a year after my last update.

_I'm so very sorry for this._

I never intended the update to be so, so hopelessly late. Doubtless some of you have dropped WaZ in the meantime. Many of you probably have no idea what's going on in this story anymore. The only explanations I can offer are the standard ones: life got in the way, Senior year in college is insane, and this was not an easy chapter to write. So many little events had to be touched on - stuff which took the place of major milestones in the book, yet which has diminished somewhat in impact and importance due to other events changing things down the line. I still had to mention them, at least to give a sense of timing or because they weren't likely to have changed in form just yet...

It was hard to reach the end of this chapter when I wrote it. Hopefully reading will go just a bit more easily for you.

Until next time (stars forbid it be yet another year from now...)

((P.S. Though it is, indeed, April 1st right now, this is not a joke chapter. I wouldn't dare after leaving you hanging for an entire year.))

EDITED for summary of recent events and OC list:

Harry, as a Living Reaper with Darksun as his blade, has discovered his parents in the English Soul Society. They live outside the usual city of souls, the Ring and the Center, in a secretive community of former wizards and witches. Harry sneaks out to SS late at night every weekend to see them, and no one knows that he has found them save Sirius.

Speaking of Sirius, he and Remus have revealed Scabbers, AKA Peter Pettigrew, very early in the school year, resulting in a promised trial by the Ministry to prove Sirius' innocence.

Darksun has revealed a few details of his past to Harry: he was once a Substitute Shinigami/Living Reaper like Harry himself, he chose to become a blade, and he was, and is, half hollow. He has always been in control, and his instincts want to reclaim that stance. He knows that he shouldn't want to take over, and he knows how to fix it: Harry must fight him "for real" and ultimately defeat him to quiet the instincts he fears. Harry, unfortunately, isn't so certain of this as a solution, and one day, still flying on the bliss of his newly-discovered familial bonds, Harry makes the mistake of comparing Darksun to a brother figure and refusing to fight him outright.

Darksun has to get Harry to fight seriously, and so he attacks, threatening Harry's life and his place in his own world, before throwing Harry out of his own soul's center and telling him not to return until he is ready to really, truly make an effort...

OCS (by squad)  
Commander Overall: Gavin Murgatroyd  
I. Maia: George Cannon, Frank Wescott  
II. Electra: Susan Blackborne, Bertram Wolfe  
III. Taygete: Gwen Hawthorne*, Magnolia Fenn  
IV. Alcyone: Blake Storm**, Thane Lowry  
V. Celaeno: Warran Tate, Janice Acker  
VI. Asterope: Richard Davies***, Alyssa Longstaff (also junior member: John Tanner)  
VII. Merope: Rhiannon Prescott, Cassiopeia Ray

Trivia note: Seven squads are named for the sisters/stars of the Pleiades.

* Taught Harry his first Deathspells  
** Trained Harry in some released-sword fighting  
*** Shadowed Harry in Living World for Dumbledore, brought him to SS, took him into Asterope squad on an unofficial/temporary basis for summer.  
John Tanner is a junior member of Asterope and something of an acquaintance/friend of Harry's from the summer. Recently attained his first release and challenged Harry to a friendly spar the next time he came around SS.

Wizard-Reaper leaders: Calypso Sinclair, Phineas Goodman

* * *

Harry stumbled down into the empty common room late the next morning. Despite his best efforts, sleep had eluded him; he doubted he'd gotten more than three consecutive hours the entire night. Every time he started to drift off, a burning golden gaze flashed behind his closed eyes and a phantom pressure gripped his throat; he could hardly pass five waking minutes without imagining being run through by his own sword.

It was little wonder that Ron jumped up from his seat immediately upon seeing him and exclaimed,

"Bloody hell, Harry – you look awful!"

"Thanks, Ron," Harry replied drily. "Glad to hear it."

"Sit _down_, Ronald," Hermione ordered, grabbing Ron by the back of his shirt and yanking him back down to the couch cushions when he didn't immediately comply. "Harry, how are you feeling? You look pale..."

"Couldn't sleep. Where is everybody?"

"Gone. First day of Christmas holiday," Ron reminded him. "The Express left earlier this morning."

Oh. Well, that explained the commotion in the dorm at about six or so.

"I forgot about that," Harry admitted. "Good thing I never go anywhere for holidays, huh?"

"I'd wake you up if you did," said Ron. "Though looking at you now, I'd say you needed the lie-in."

"I'd say he still needs a 'lie-in,'" Hermione ventured.

"I'm fine. Really. Listen, let's...let's go visit Hagrid. And Sirius. We can wish them a Merry Christmas early, and we've not properly visited in a couple of weeks at least now..."

And it would get his mind off of the nightmare of Darksun threatening to impale him – the 'nightmare' which was quite literally too real to easily ignore.

Harry didn't dare voice this reason, and so Hermione took a bit of convincing that tromping across snowy grounds down to Hagrid's hut was a good idea. In the end she went along, though she made her every reservation – most of them to do with Harry's apparent health, and the rest with the state of her holiday homework and reading-ahead schedule – very well known before deigning to so much as collect her winter cloak.

The castle and the grounds were as silent and empty as the Gryffindor common room had been, and when there was no immediate answer to a knock on Hagrid's door Harry immediately and rather illogically wondered if he had done off someplace for holiday as well.

"Is he out?" Hermione asked.

Ron pressed his ear against the wood.

"I hear something...sort of a moaning. Fang, maybe?"

Harry stepped up and pounded against the door.

"Hagrid! Sirius? It's Harry – are you there?"

Quick footsteps sounded inside, and an instant later the door was wrenched open by Sirius. Dressed in a decent, plain black robe and with his hair and beard washed and trimmed, he looked far better now than he had the first time Harry had seen his human form, months ago in the hallway outside of Defense. His expression, however, was torn between joy, relief, and an awkward sympathy, the reasons for which soon became clear as Hagrid thundered up behind him, reaching down over Sirius' shoulders to grip Harry and Ron's arms.

"Yeh've heard!" Hagrid bellowed, his eyes so red and puffy with tears that Harry's earlier look of exhaustion seemed a paltry thing by comparison.

For a moment, Harry thought that the only thing which kept Hagrid from hugging the three of them bodily was Sirius, still standing between them. He was profoundly grateful, even as the massive groundskeeper all but yanked them inside, still sobbing.

"What happened?" Hermione asked. Hagrid collapsed onto one of his heavy oak chairs, waving a massive hand at an open letter lying on the table. Sirius plucked it up and passed it to Harry with an expression still caught in an uncomfortably guilty relief.

The letter itself was extremely official in appearance and tone, the parchment marked at the top with the crests of both Hogwarts and the ministry and the script flowing and clear. Harry read it aloud for his friends.

_Dear Mr. Hagrid_, it began.

_Further to our inquiry into the attack by a Hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident._

"Oh, that's good," Ron interrupted cheerfully. Hagrid's breath hitched in the middle of a particularly heartfelt sob. Coughing and blubbering into a handkerchief the size of a baby blanket, Hagrid waved a hand for Harry to continue.

_However, we must register our concern about the Hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take place on April 20__th__, and we ask you to present yourself and your Hippogriff at the Committee's offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the Hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated._

_Yours in fellowship..._

Harry stopped reading, figuring that a long list of signatures wasn't worth the bother.

"But...Buckbeak's not a bad hippogriff," Ron said, "I bet he'll still get off..."

"He attacked a student," Sirius said evenly. "The ministry isn't going to just dismiss that."

"An' that Committee," Hagrid moaned, "they've got it in fer interestin' creatures!"

"But it was Malfoy's own fault!" Ron complained. "Hagrid _told_ us not to insult them!"

"Do you think they'll care? Hippogriffs are, by nature, volatile," Sirius explained. "In addition, Buckbeak wasn't tethered when Malfoy Jr. opened his mouth and let loose – honestly, we're lucky Dumbledore could convince them Hagrid _wasn't_ at fault for letting a class of thirteen-year-olds around untied, uninhibited Hippogriffs."

"All we need is a strong defense, though," Hermione said. "We've already been looking, as I thought something like this might happen – though it'll be simpler, now, as Hagrid's not to be blamed..."

"Won' make no difference," Hagrid moaned loudly, burying his face into his handkerchief. "Them disposal devils, they're all in Lucius Malfoy's pocket! Scared o' him! An' if I lose the case, Buckbeak..."

A sudden crunching noise drew their attention. Buckbeak was laying before the fireplace, tearing apart something raw and bloody and looking as though he hadn't a care in the world – as though his death wasn't being discussed not seven feet away from him.

"Er, Hagrid..." Hermione started.

"I couldn' leave him tied up out there in the snow! All on his own! At _Christmas_!"

Hagrid choked, then broke down bawling again. An uncomfortable silence settled on the others in the hut, until Ron suddenly blurted out,

"Er – shall I make a cup of tea?"

Harry stared.

"What? It's what my mum does, when someone's upset," Ron muttered.

Sirius offered him a wan smile, clapping his shoulder and nudging him toward the kettle.

"Not a bad idea," he said. "Harry, do you mind talking for a moment?"

They withdrew to a corner – hardly private, given the size of Hagrid's hut, but at least a little distant from Hagrid and Hermione, who was trying, through awkward arm-pats and hushing noises, to soothe him until Ron could finish brewing a massive mug of tea for the distraught groundskeeper.

"I'd been hoping to tell you in better circumstances, but...well, timing can't be helped, I guess," Sirius said, gesturing vaguely toward the table in the middle of the room. "Wormtail's trial's been set for the fifth of January – they're speeding it through a bit. Dumbledore says my chances are good, since more and more evidence is coming out, and I've offered to go and take Veritaserum if it'll help..."

"Veritaserum?"

"Truth potion," Sirius answered.

"Do you think that might help Hagrid? If we – Ron, Hermione and I – offered to be witnesses and took that?"

Sirius shook his head.

"No – Veritaserum is rather powerful. Minors can take it only with personal _and_ guardian consent, and it's not considered all that safe for wizards and witches under fifteen or sixteen anyhow. Besides, the whole problem with Buckbeak's trial is the Hippogriff's intent and how safe he might or might not be in the future – not the facts, but how they're seen. There's nothing a truth potion can provide there."

"But it'll help you?"

"Yes, because there's not many ways you can interpret a rat blowing up a street, cutting off his own finger, and leaving his old friend to take the blame," Sirius pointed out, a little drily.

"Oh. So, will you?"

"Testify against him? I'd love to, but in the end it's really up to Dumbledore. Right now he's mostly concentrating on getting the Ministry to get rid of the dementors around Hogwarts, though it's been a trick – until I'm cleared, some of those buffoons are determined to act like I could still storm up there and knife students in their sleep or something."

"That's not fair," Harry protested. Sirius rolled his eyes with an odd half-smile in agreement.

"I know, but enough about dementors – depressing subject. Are you looking forward to Christmas?"

They spent the remainder of the day in Hagrid's hut, alternately discussing the holidays and consoling Hagrid whenever the thought of Christmas cheer turned his mind paradoxically to the court summons and Buckbeak's seemingly inevitable fate. As evening wore on, the teenagers ducked out of Hagrid's offer of supper and made their way back to Hogwarts castle and a meal which promised to be fully edible, their heads full of hippogriffs, research, Christmas, and – in Harry's case – the realization that he had yet to find a present for Sirius.

All in all, the day was something of a success: Harry didn't think about Darksun again until he lay down to sleep that night.

And then the cycle of anxious worry began yet again.

Stepping out of his body late Saturday night felt wrong somehow.

Harry patted his soul form down, eyeing his body and wondering if something, somehow, had gone wrong. It wasn't until he had given up his search and was finally preparing to leave that he realized what it was...

Because drawing Darksun's sealed form felt like betrayal.

In the same way as leaving his body, it simply seemed _wrong._

The hilt was uncharacteristically cold in his hand, and the metal of the blade hung dead and heavy against his grip. Harry hesitated for several long seconds, absently listening to Ron snore as he toyed with the idea of staying put, returning to his inner world, _demanding, asking, begging _his sword to reconsider that stipulation and those threats. But then again..._gold-on-black eyes_...maybe he should just stay put and go to sleep instead. Call the trip off. Not use any of his Reaper abilities for any reason. Wait for Darksun to speak first, if he ever spoke again at all.

Instead, Harry thrust the blade into the air and twisted it ninety degrees.

The Archway materialized around the keyed blade, pouring white light and clear spirit energy into the warm air of the dorm. A black hell butterfly danced out of the void, circling Harry's head as he stepped through the gate.

_I did promise to come,_ he reminded himself as he sheathed his sword and pulled a silver canister from a coat pocket. The butterfly led him on through the light, heading unerringly toward Soul Society and toward his parents.

Next week. Next week he'd stay in Hogwarts, give up using the dark power which he was now sure he couldn't master.

Except...his parents...

Harry uncapped the canister and stepped out onto the bare patch of earth, passing unnoticed under the eyes and senses of the guard on duty and wandering uneasily to the nearest gate, his face twisted in confusion and sorrow as he struggled with a decision he could never have imagined trying to make only seven days ago.

* * *

A stranger sat with Lily and James Potter.

Harry froze in the doorway, wondering if he should hang back and wait for the man to leave or approach and simply take his place between his parents, and in the instant of his wondering his father looked up. James' face broke into a broad grin the likes of which was more commonly seen on a happy jack-o-lantern carved from one of Hagrid's giant pumpkins rather than a human head.

The stranger unfolded his pencil-thin body from the chair as Harry came near, but instead of vanishing away and leaving the small family alone, he offered a hand, a small smile and a long, assessing gaze.

"Phineas Goodman. You must be Harry; I've heard a lot about you."

His voice carried an odd accent – something like a college-educated Hagrid, if Harry stretched the comparison. A vague hint of broadness to his vowels distinguished it especially, though he didn't drop as many letters as the Keeper of the Grounds tended to.

"Er...thank you, sir."

"Very polite," Phineas observed with a pleased nod. "Very few modern wizards seem to bother anymore, unless they're trying to be flattering, so thank _you_...though I expect you're probably wondering what I'm doing here."

"A bit," Harry admitted, settling down.

"Phineas is the second in command – the vice-minister of sorts – of the Wizarding section of the afterlife," James jumped in.

Phineas scoffed.

"Vice minister? Please. 'Chief Educator' is much preferable. I study and teach more than deal in the politics which the former title suggests."

"You see, Harry, your father and I were hoping to have Christmas – just the three of us – back at our home here. We just need to clear your visit with those in charge."

Christmas with his family. All at once, Harry's worries about Darksun and battles and threats diminished into almost nothing.

"Really? What do I need to do?"

"Not much," Phineas replied, smiling again, one side of his mouth quirked higher than the other. "Usually there's a whole shadowing process before we let a soul in on everything, but in this case I think we could just do with a brief meeting – if you don't mind including me in your conversations for the next hour or so."

Harry shook his head immediately, informing them that he didn't mind in the least.

_Christmas_ with his _family._

"Good. It should simplify things immensely if I can claim this was an interview session. I imagine you should like our section of this world; there is much beauty to see...have you ever heard of the _Rood_?"

"No, sir."

Lily had ordered tea for everyone and passed Harry a steaming cup with a smile illuminating her face.

"It's beautiful," she informed her son. "We'll have to show you when you come over...a great golden tree, made entirely of spirit particles..."

"_The Dream of the Rood_ is a poem written by a man over a thousand years ago," Phineas supplied, sounding more and more like a professor the longer he spoke, it seemed to Harry. "It's rumored that he was a rare individual, with high spiritual ability even while alive, living in a rare time. Somehow he caught a glimpse into this world in his dreams one night – or maybe several – and used the experience as a basis for a famous poem, though he did interpret the tree as a Christian cross due to the religion of the time. How did it go, how did it go..._Hwaet...Ic swefna cyst secgan wylle, hwaet me gemaette to midre nihte..._something _reordberend reste wunedon...thuhte me thaet ic..._something, something. Ah, it's been too long, and the language too old to stick in my memory."

"Did you know the author of the poem built a house just beneath the tree after he died and found it?" James said. "He still yells in German at anyone who tries to bother him."

"It's Old English," Phineas corrected. "Though there is a certain similarity in sound..."

"Obsessed old hermit."

"Protective," Lily replied. "He's taken care of that tree since he died. He just doesn't want it to be harmed. He doesn't mind people coming by to look, though."

"Was he a wizard too?" Harry asked.

Phineas shrugged his skinny shoulders.

"Who knows? Nobody can speak the language anymore; most souls that old have moved on, and the younger ones who may have studied it usually did so out of books. He speaks rather quickly. Most of us assume so simply because he's lived among us for so long, but I – and don't tell anyone this – I rather suspect he was simply a rather _gifted _muggle."

"Don't tell? Why? What's wrong with that?"

"Well, nothing, of course. It's simply that most souls in our community have been around for quite some time, and then of course there's the entire legend about the origins of the reapers, and the sudden replacement of magic and wands with spirit energy and blades leaves some feeling a bit cheated or defensive, and...well, you package it all up, and it's little wonder a majority of wizarding souls don't think much of their formerly magic-less counterparts."

"Oh," Harry said, thinking of Draco Malfoy and his beliefs concerning pure wizard blood and muggleborns. It made him a bit sad to think that even after death, where there was no more mortal magic and even former muggles could become powerful in amazing ways, people would cling to old labels and prejudice.

But he was with his parents, far away from any of that, so it didn't take him long to push those thoughts aside for the moment. In an instant following he considered asking about this "legend" Phineas had briefly mentioned. Then he decided to talk to Darksun about it later.

Then he remembered that Darksun wasn't speaking to him – had threatened to _kill_ him – and so he asked anyway.

"The legend...a fain curious thing, and more logic in looking than true myth may be. The history of the Soul Society as a whole stretches back too far to be remembered, long before humans even had a written language with which to record events. Nobody can really agree just when soul reapers and hollows first came into existence, or where that beginning may have been, if it was ordained by a higher power at once or if it grew up on its own, but...ah, forgive me for the lecture. Sometimes I can't help myself."

"You're better than Binns," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Phineas laughed briefly.

"Binns! Do not tell me he's still teaching? He was a fresh new ghost when I went to Hogwarts...well, new as a ghost might consider it. But that brings me nicely into the core of this legend: the difference between a wizard's passing and a muggle's. When a wizard reaches death, his soul does not linger. Instead, he rushes on into an in-between world, where he might decide to depart onward or, if he is particularly determined or afraid, to go back, at which point his soul becomes a shadow if itself and remains in the world, unchanging forever.

"A muggle, however..." Phineas paused to take a sip of tea. "A muggle tends to remain as a different sort of ghost altogether. Very few slip away to the afterlife immediately upon death as wizards do, and none of them have a here-or-there choice in the matter. They also take a different form – more colorful, with a short chain here."

He patted the left side of his chest, just above his heart. Harry nearly opened his mouth to correct him – the chain was in the center – but Phineas was already continuing, so he swallowed the impulse.

"Now, since wizards cross over more-or-less on their own, while muggles are confined to the earth until such a time as they become hollow souls or are 'invited' into this Soul Society by the aid of a soul reaper, who was once a human soul himself...why, it naturally follows that the first soul reapers – of whatever was the first human civilization – must have been those of magic, and that the muggles must have come after. It is not inconceivable to think that, in those early days, a magical man or woman would help a non-magical countrymen cross after death – we had a much closer relationship at that time. Within the last several centuries, ever after the rift occurred to split our cultures and force us into secrecy on earth, the legend here has been further decorated with suggestions that spirit power equals magical power in death, and that former muggles must have absorbed or even 'stolen' that magic from the wizarding reapers who brought them over...something the sort of which may well have happened inadvertently, I admit. I have not had the chance to study the mechanics of helping a muggle ghost pass on, due to my unfortunate failures to construct a gate of our own..."

Phineas fell into a musing silence, his gaze growing distant as he absently toyed with the half-full teacup between his narrow hands.

"Don't mind him," James whispered, leaning toward Harry. "You get him thinking of tests and inventions, and he forgets anyone else is even there."

"You guys don't have gates? But then why doesn't he just use the Center's?" Harry whispered in reply.

"Because he leads and teaches wizards, and quite a few of them don't like the fact that the Center is mostly led by former muggles. He's probably afraid of getting kicked out or something. Nobody really wants that to happen to them, so we all just sort of...live with it."

_Even you_? Harry wanted to ask his parents, but the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his throat.

Before he could think of a good way to say it – or even if he really wanted to after all, Phineas stirred and looked quickly at a pocketwatch on a silver chain.

"Fifteen minutes already?" he exclaimed. "And all we've spoken of is the Soul Society...quite the interview to establish your character, isn't it, young Mr. Potter? Ah well, no matter...tell me, if you will, what Hogwarts is like now. Have any more ghosts turned up to teach, I wonder?"

And once again, the question of former wizards and muggles was swept aside in Harry's mind, this time in favor of recollections about Hogwarts, his teachers, and eventually the world in general as he explained everything the centuries-dead soul had missed about the living world. The conversation stretched to an hour and a half before Phineas remembered the time, apologized for taking up so much of it, and took his leave.

The loss of that span hardly seemed to matter to Harry, because before the man left he had stooped low over their table to quietly whisper:

"I do believe that, in a week's time, you will be catching your first glimpse of the golden _Rood_. Happy Christmas to you."

_Christmas with his family_, Harry's heart sang.

He could hardly wait.

* * *

The next week passed by in a long, slow blur of snowflakes and library research, toasting things in the Gryffindor fireplace and shivering as they hurried from the castle to Hagrid's hut and back again day after day.

"You'll spoil me, visiting so much," Sirius joked on Thursday, Christmas Eve. "Once classes start up again, what will I do to occupy myself?"

"Play fetch with Hagrid and Fang?" Harry suggested innocently, and Sirius playfully mussed his hair beyond even its usual state of disarray.

"Be like that, and you just might be playing fetch and retrieve with your own Christmas present," the older man grumbled, though in good nature.

"You got me a Christmas present?"

Harry couldn't help the tone of surprise which colored his voice.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I've missed about thirteen years' worth of birthdays and Christmasses with you, and I've got to get started sometime."

A pleased little smile touched Harry's face. Though he'd searched out a present for Sirius (with a little help from Ron, Hermione, and Hedwig of course) he hadn't really expected anything from his godfather in return – if for no other reason than his persistent status as a fugitive and a wanted man.

Though the good news there was that the ministry wasn't searching for him quite so zealously anymore, and the better news was that Dumbledore had gotten them to withdraw all but two Dementors, who both guarded the gates now in a stubborn show of force.

The thought that in just a little over a week his godfather would be a free man and the Dementors banished from Hogwarts forever only lifted Harry's spirits further. It was hard to be gloomy so close to Christmas; Darksun's ultimatum hadn't even come to Harry's mind since the beginning of the week, and the sword himself certainly hadn't popped up even once as a reminder. And so when Harry had trouble falling asleep that night, it was because, for once, he was looking forward to Christmas morning.

The dawn came bright, clear and cold that Friday, creeping in through the frosty-paned window in the boys' dormitory. Harry woke up early, far earlier than his late night should have allowed – and even so, Ron had somehow gotten up before him.

"Happy Christmas!" the red-headed boy crowed, coming out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in hand. "Get _off_, stupid cat!"

Crookshanks, sprawled lazily over the center of Ron's bed, tilted a lazy eye up at him before dropping his head, curling his tail around, and promptly feigning sleep.

"Dumb thing snuck in last night...anyhow, presents!"

Ron fished through the piles at the foot of their beds, emerging with two lumpy packages. One he tossed to Harry, who immediately recognized the feel of a Weasley jumper trough the wrapping.

"Maroon again?" Harry asked when he heard the groan across the room, not even having to look up to confirm it.

"_Every year_," Ron groused, though he pulled the jumper on over his pajamas anyhow. "And she even made _matching socks _this time. Honestly, what's wrong with a good, honest red, like yours?"

"Maybe she just really likes maroon?"

"Fat chance, as I'm the _only one_ who gets it. Oh, here's one from Hermione..."

Time passed quickly as the two of them unwrapped their gifts and threw balled up strips of wrapping paper at one another. Around the fifth time Crookshanks was accidentally pelted by either a shot gone awry or by a crumpled ball bouncing off of Ron the cat left, tail and nose held high in the air like a king proceeding out of a room full of common fools.

Fifteen minutes later, the little king was back, looking far less regal and far more disgruntled in Hermione's arms with a string of tinsel tied in a glittery bow around his neck.

"Lovely jumper, Ronald," Hermione said. Ron flicked a paper ball at her, but it fell short and rolled under Seamus' empty bed.

"You've certainly made a mess of things in here," she observed further, looking the room over and taking note of the shredded and balled wrapping and ribbons strewn across their beds and, more often, the floor. "And how on earth did that get up there?"

Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor to search under his bed, got up and looked where Hermione was pointing.

Fixed to the ceiling with what might have been half a roll of spellotape was a long, narrow box-shaped package wrapped in plain brown paper, "_FOR HARRY" _written in bold, prominent letters down its length and a black pawprint adorning the end in place of a "from" signature.

His mouth fell open.

"Sirius, you..."

No word could describe him at the moment, so Harry simply cut himself off with an inarticulate cry of frustration and began to search for a chair to climb on – though he doubted that even then he'd be able to so much as touch the package with his fingertips, let alone get enough of a grip on it to tear the tape away.

Then Hermione dropped Crookshanks on Ron's bed (ignoring his protests) and drew her wand with a sigh.

"Stand back a bit Harry; I've not really practiced this spell much yet..._Accio _present!"

With a loud tearing sound, the box wrenched itself free of the ceiling and fell directly into Hermione's arms.

"I don't remember learning that yet," Ron said, his brow furrowed.

"That's because we haven't. I found it in some of the additional material I read for our last Charms essay," Hermione replied, handing the box to Harry.

"Figures. I forgot the one rule of Hermione Granger: read everything, and then show it off as early as possible."

There was a flump and a muffled yell – probably Ron being whalloped with his own pillow – but Harry's gaze was fixed on what lay inside the box. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. After a long while he abruptly stood and dove for his trunk, pulling out trousers and thick socks and his winter cloak and heading for the bathroom. Hermione and Ron, engaged as they were with their minor spat, didn't even properly notice this until he emerged again a minute later, grabbed the box, and rushed for the door.

"Harry—"

"Harry, what are you—"

The dormitory door swung slowly about on its hinges in his wake.

* * *

Hagrid's door opened and Harry threw himself inside without so much as a greeting.

"Are you _serious?_"

"It depends on how you spell it," joked the man who had moments before been a dog lounging in one of Hagrid's massively oversized chairs – Hagrid himself wasn't there at the moment, it seemed. Sirius flicked a glance at the box clutched in Harry's arms, his demeanor growing worried. "Is there something wrong...?"

"A _Firebolt?_"

"Didn't you need a new broom?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. A Firebolt! How did you get a _Firebolt?_ You're still on the run!"

"Dumbledore," Sirius said, as though that answered every question Harry had. And, upon a brief moment of reflection, Harry realized that it really did. Except...

"It's too much. It had to cost...it's _way_ too much!"

"Not really. That gold of mine's been sitting there for years, just gathering dust. I might as well put it to good use."

Harry stared at Sirius, his heart pounding. Good use? This was a Firebolt – it was like Dudley getting thirty-eight presents for a single birthday, or Malfoy's father giving all of Slytherin team Nimbus 2001s...

"I told you, Harry: I missed about thirteen years of birthdays and Christmasses. Just think of this as all those presents rolled up in one," Sirius stated quietly. "And now that that's out of the way, we can go to a more normal routine: prank books, sweets, a new cloak now and then...oh, thanks for that, by the way. It's very nice and warm."

"You...you don't need to buy me things," Harry said, turning his head slightly away. He caught a glimpse of Hermione and Run trudging through the snow toward Hagrid's hut.

"No, I don't need to. That doesn't stop me from wanting to. It's part of a godfather's job description, you know, though I suppose I'll have to avoid the active spoiling since I'll actually be the one to finish up raising you."

Harry suddenly felt very warm inside, despite the winter weather. He glanced back at Sirius, who threw him a grin and a wink.

"So, think you can win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup for me in return?"

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed, a short and somewhat breathy sound. His fingers fumbled the box open, withdrawing the gleaming broomstick from inside and holding it up between them.

"Yeah...with this? There's no way we could lose!"

* * *

Sirius joined them for Christmas dinner in the Great Hall – as Snuffles, of course. Dumbledore twinkled knowingly at them, as usual, from the single table in the middle of the room. Contrastingly, Snape's lip curled at the sight of a large black dog trotting in behind the trio. He looked moments away from asking _why_ a mangy beast was being allowed into an eating place when Professor Flitwick piped up instead.

"Oh! Is that Hagrid's latest boarder?"

"Such a sweet boy," Professor Sprout cooed, reaching down as they passed and rubbing the spot at the top of Sirius' head. The animagus stopped dead and went nearly cross eyed as she scratched harder around the base of his ears, and a strangled, happy whine escaped him. "Oh, is that the spot?"

Ron and Harry caught each others' eye. Both had to choke back laughter.

"Headmaster," Professor Snape drawled, "will you really allow this? The Great Hall is, after all, no place for animals..."

"Nonsense," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "The Great Hall plays host to _flocks_ of owls each morning, and droves of pets at all hours of the day. Why, just last week I spent all of supper with a cat sitting on my right foot, looking for a few scraps no doubt. Cracker?"

Snape regarded the silver-papered cracker offered to him for a sour second before he reluctantly seized hold of one end and tugged. A massive bang shook the air, several live white mice escaped, and the cracker tore apart to reveal a very familiar witches' hat topped by a moth-eaten stuffed vulture.

The potions master gave the hat a glare fit to melt a cauldron and shoved it away.

Dumbledore donned it without hesitation.

"Tuck in!" he invited the table at large, following his own advice with a beaming smile.

Just as Harry slipped a thick slice of turkey underneath for Sirius, the doors of the Great Hall opened, and Professor Trelawney rolled in, as much a glittery dragonfly in appearance here as she was in her perfumed and misty tower, if not more so – at least she didn't wear green sequined dresses during class.

Harry and Ron, however, were far too interested in quietly discussing the new Firebolt's amazing acceleration, smooth response, and fantastic brake time to pay her much attention beyond that cursory initial glance...until she screamed aloud.

"THE GRIM!"

Harry whirled and stared; she was pointing directly at him. Or rather, he realized as he followed the line of her wide, immensely magnified eyes, she was pointing just beside him, below his seat.

Sirius opened his mouth and panted in an almost-sheepish doggy grin, his head poking out from under the table.

"Really, Sybill, it's a perfectly normal dog," Professor McGonagall chided impatiently. "Now come and sit down, the turkey's growing cold."

Professor Trelawney looked like she was about to faint.

"Thirteen dining at a table with a living sign of the Grim...I dare not! Death will eat with us!"

"I am sure we need not worry," Dumbledore stated, still wearing his vulture-topped cracker hat. "Hagrid has kept Snuffles in his home for nearly a month now and is still in perfect health."

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then approached the newly-conjured chair like it was a gallows. She squeezed her eyes and mouth shut tight and lowered herself carefully to the seat as though the table might explode under a bolt of lightning the moment she was fully settled. Professor McGonagall merely poked a spoon into the nearest tureen and proceeded to serve herself and offer some to Professor Trelawney.

From that point onward, dinner was very nearly normal, though punctuated at times by loud gunshot bangs, plumes of smoke, and several scurrying white mice as crackers were pulled up and down the table's length. This was far better, Harry thought, than repeated moans about Grims and Death from the Divination teacher, and he found himself almost forgetting she was there until he and Ron both stood up to leave.

Professor Trelawney immediately reminded him of her presence when she shrieked loudly enough to cut off other conversations.

"Dear children! Which of you left his seat first? Which?"

"Dunno," said Ron, looking a little worried. Harry simply shrugged.

"I doubt it will make a difference," Professor McGonagall said, "unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the Entrance Hall."

Sirius made a curious whuffling noise under the table; it sounded very suspiciously like laughter. Professor Trelawney looked affronted, though the look changed quickly to horror when Sirius emerged fully from his hiding place to trot after Harry.

"Coming?" Harry asked Hermione, and she took a last drink of pumpkin juice before following them.

Once they were in the Entrance Hall – curiously devoid of mad axe-men – Hermione took the lead.

"I just thought of another section in the library we could check, since the magical creatures section hasn't yielded any good results: we could try looking up criminal justice and court proceedings, and perhaps there'll be something there we could use to help Buckbeak..."

Harry and Ron looked at each other and, together, they watched their half-planned dream afternoon of further testing out the Firebolt slip away.

* * *

Saturday crept by agonizingly slowly. Hermione all but tied them down to chairs in the Library for a combination of Buckbeak research and actual homework ("The start of term's just around the corner!") and it wasn't until late afternoon that Harry had a chance to fly again.

Night fell quickly; his flight didn't last long.

Then it was supper, chess with Ron (Harry lost in a more spectacularly terrible fashion than usual), another round of singing the Firebolt's praises ("Malfoy'll piss himself!") and then, then Harry lay awake in bed, fighting off sleep while he waited for Ron's breathing to even out, waited several minutes longer to make sure he wouldn't be getting up at the least noise, and finally pressed the skull medallion under his pyjama shirt to his chest.

Harry slid through the curtains around his bed and drew his sword, concentrating on muffling the slight ring and scrape of metal as it cleared the sheath. He paused, waited, but Ron slept on, peacefully oblivious.

Less than a minute later, Harry was halfway to the Soul Society, his heart pounding and the grin splitting his face.

_Christmas with his family_.

For the first time in his living memory.

He hardly remembered to screen his arrival; his feet flew through erratic bursts of flash step and outright sprinting through the Center and the dark and nearly-deserted streets of the Ring. His every nerve was alight, his senses working overtime, and his limbs were trembling just slightly when he finally skidded to a halt in front of the usual soup and tea kitchen.

James and Lily – his parents – were waiting outside for him.

They greeted him, asked him how his earthly Christmas had been, and then Lily looped an arm around his shoulders and told him to hang on—

A snap.

The world shattered into pieces around him, reformed a scant instant later, and they no longer stood on the quiet street outside their usual meeting place, but inside a dimly-lit cavern studded with blue and green crystals and so smoothly floored that it almost seemed man-made. A pale golden light shone through a door-sized gap in one wall.

"What was that?" Harry asked, unwinding himself from his mother's side. It had felt and looked _nothing_ like flash step.

"This place's version of apparition," she replied.

"I'll teach you how-" James tried to say, but his wife cut him off with a sharp look and finished the phrase for him.

"Once you have your _regular_ apparition license."

"That's almost four years from now!"

"Yes, it is. Come on, let's go."

As Lily led the way toward the warmly-lit gap in the cavern wall, James caught Harry's eye and shrugged. He held up four fingers and, with a wink, folded two of them down again.

Harry grinned and hurried after his mother.

The tunnel was short and wide, and it opened on a sight so spectacular that Harry's steps halted completely and his eyes widened.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Lily whispered. Harry was beyond speech; all he could do was continue to drink in the vision before them.

The new cavern was immense, big enough, Harry thought, to contain all of Hogwarts castle with room to spare above. Wide-ledged pathways and staircases wound around the cavern's sides, connecting tunnel openings and doorways; the Potters stood on one such ledge roughly halfway up the curving stone wall, which was streaked so profusely with faintly luminous blue-green crystal veins that the stone itself seemed to take on a watery color.

And there, in the very center of the cavern, not planted in the ground but _hovering_ in midair with a thick tangle of roots dropping to the deep, rocky floor and a wide, graceful sweep of branches brushing the crystal-veined ceiling...there was the golden _Rood_.

It glowed, the center of the trunk blazing with such a brilliant white-hot light that it was like looking at a very small sun, while the furthest tips of the far-off branches and roots glimmered with metallic reflections rather than an internal light. The tree bore no leaves, but its branches and roots swayed gently, as though caught in a breeze which affected no one and nothing else in the entire wide cavern, and a sound like whispering teased Harry's ears, always present, never completely audible, no matter how he strained to hear.

At long last, Harry managed to speak.

"_Wow_..."

"Nobody knows how this thing got here, or even what it _is_," James said, casting a slightly dramatic gesture toward the massive floating tree. "Merlin, we don't even know if it had a name before the old man dreamed it; we got 'Rood' from the poem, and that's actually supposed to mean 'cross' or something..."

The little family stood in a calm, very nearly reverent silence for a full minute longer, until Lily placed her hands on Harry's shoulders and took a long, soft breath.

"Are you ready?"

Harry understood. He grinned, a little nervously, and nodded.

"Yeah."

Home.

For Christmas.

With _family_.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he was simply caught in a dream.

* * *

On the first Monday of classes, Harry was tired and a touch anxious. The next day, Tuesday, he was worried sick.

'_**TODAY: Sirius Black v. Peter Pettigrew(?)**_,' proclaimed the headlines that morning. '_The truth revealed or an elaborate hoax?'_ the tagline continued, and the copy Hermione borrowed from an upperclassman seemed almost wholly dedicated to the trial which was, at that very moment, taking place in the Ministry. The headline article, telling what little was known or could be found out about the trial itself, was backed up in the _Prophet_ by a re-print and extension on the article which had been released on the day of Sirius' capture twelve years previous, editorials, cartoons, opinion letters from every wizard and his grandmother, all decorated by old photographs of Sirius and Pettigrew as Hogwarts students, as adults, and, in place of pride on the front page, a blurry picture which seemed to have been hurriedly snapped in a cramped, dark corridor, in which Pettigrew was half-escorted, half-carried across the frame by a pair of tall, burly aurors...

Sirius would testify himself. He had gone with Dumbledore to the ministry that very morning, turning himself in on the condition of speaking in the trial.

Harry felt almost like he could throw up.

What if something went wrong? He'd been reading so much on Wizarding trials thanks to Hermione's determination to help Hagrid and Buckbeak that he also had an inkling idea concerning technicalities, loopholes, and more. Cases had happened in the past where an obviously guilty individual (or creature) had gone free because the laws couldn't quite keep hold of him, because of some tiny exemption or technicality somewhere, and others where someone who might have been innocent made a simple mistake, dooming them to fines, house arrests, or even Azkaban.

Harry didn't know the laws which might apply in his case. He could, however, imagine various wild technicalities and bizarre decisions, and his imagination had little restraint.

If Sirius lost this trial...if he was, perhaps, convicted on some other count (_being an illegal Animagus, escaping prison, evading the law.._.) what then?

He had his parents, but only on the other side of the archway. Only for a couple of hours once a week. Sirius would be _here_, _now, in this world, always_, but only if he won.

The last page of the _Prophet_ had a simple, self-updating time chart set to automatically relay brief phrases on everything a reporter outside the courtroom could see. Harry asked Hermione for a simple paper-cutting charm and snipped the fragment out. Throughout the day, he kept an eye on it for any important changes, but little came across save the trial breaking for lunch and "no comments" from various witnesses, assistants, and other persons moving in and out of the courtroom.

At six-o-clock the charm on the paper ran out, or the reporter stopped writing. The last thing it said was "5:47 p.m. Wizengamot convenes for final decision."

"Don' worry," Ron said through his plate of shepherd's pie. "Course he got off. There's no way they'd pack him away now."

Harry poked at the thin brown crust on top of his mashed potatoes and eyed the still, silent scrap of paper by his plate. It never changed, even late into the night when Harry finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep full of grim-like dogs with gleaming golden eyes, high-pitched, echoing laughter, and dead, rotting hands underneath hooded black robes. His dreams woke him early, and after loitering in front of the Common Room fireplace he wandered down to the Great Hall ahead of most of his classmates. Even so, he found it filled with noise and owls already, despite a mere quarter of the school being present. A hush spread at his appearance, only for the conversation to intensify a moment later. Spying a newspaper laying folded up near the end of Gryffindor table, Harry rushed over and unfolded it.

His chest tightened and his throat constricted. He fought off a sob as the blocky black text blurred in his vision.

"_**BLACK EXONERATED! **__True murderer revealed: Harry Potter's godfather free at last._"

He didn't even bother reading further, nor did he care that people were watching. Harry sank down onto the bench, clutching the paper to his chest. A weight seemed to drop free at that instant, and he laughed until he cried.

* * *

After that, it felt like nothing could bring Harry's mood down. With his Firebolt bringing new confidence to the team, Gryffindor all but steamrolled Ravenclaw in the Quidditch match following. It didn't hurt that Malfoy and his goons made fools of themselves by dressing up in hooded robes in an attempt to make Harry think they were dementors, nor that his patronus had, in turn, scared the living snot out of them. Though Hermione had recently grown stressed to the point of snappishness, Ron had gotten over "Scabbers," helped along by the tiny owl Sirius gave him to make up for matters (though he still seemed a little startled and uncomfortable whenever he remembered how Scabbers had been his pet, and before that Percy's, for all those years).

Not even Hagrid and Buckbeak heading off to trial or Sirius heading off to "do a little house-cleaning" could dampen his spirits for long. He basked in his parent's love and attention weekly, he had the promise of a Dursley-free _forever _to look forward to, Gryffindor was doing well in the running for both the Quidditch and the House cups, and it was a Hogsmeade weekend...which, for Harry, meant a day under the bright sun of the Soul Society.

"You're not going?" Ron had asked, looking like he'd just been hit over the head with a rubber club. "But...Sirius...your permission slip..."

"I forgot to ask him," Harry lied – in truth, he'd actually asked Sirius to hold off on signing the slip for just the one weekend, and his godfather had understood.

"The map, then!"

"I want to do it properly. Now that I have a guardian, and I know he'll sign the permission form...I'll hold off until he does."

"But...but...Zonko's!"

"Next time, Ron – promise."

And that had been that.

Now, he had another friendly request to fulfill.

Under the watchful eye of Davis and a couple of Asterope's senior officers, Harry and John Tanner lined up against each other on the rebuilt training ground and grinned.

"Give me your best," John warned, drawing the sealed short-sword at his side. "Cause I won't be going easy on you...well, not _too _easy at least."

"Just try not to electrocute me."

As Darksun's sealed form cleared its sheath, Harry tried not to think on his sword too much. It was easier than it had been those months ago; now the threats and the violence seemed far-off and vague, like an old, if vivid, dream. Harry hadn't heard so much as a breath from his sword in all that time; it seemed as though Darksun was letting him get on with things at his own pace.

"Electrocute you? As if. Your pressure's decent enough; you can survive a few little zaps. Release?"

Harry did so easily, his sword shifting into a dark katana with a flare of red fire. Across from him, John's blade changed into a narrow, gleaming rod the length of his forearm. It crackled at the tip with arcs of blue electricity, and Harry could hear it humming from there.

"Don't let her touch you!" John warned playfully, and with a puff of dust he closed the distance between them.

Thankfully, Darksun's blade somehow _didn't_ conduct the electricity down into Harry's arms, something for which he was very grateful.

The two boys exchanged several quick attacks and blocks in succession, leaping apart after each brief bout to circle one another and begin again, teasing each other lightly as they did.

"You flash-step like an old man with a limp!"

"Like you're much better. Nice metal stick, by the way – just don't show any hollows, as they might laugh at you."

"Hey! She may be small, but she's elegant and packs a mean punch besides. Better than that long black monster you swing around. Trying to make up for your lack of height?"

Harry laughed, easily dodged a narrow bolt of lightning, and was just reaching for the pressure to make his blade burn in return when a hot, thick wave of seething displeasure rose in the back of his mind.

"_That. Is. Enough,_" Darksun's voice bit out, thick and warbling. Harry's entire body seized up, and quicker than thought he took a blast of lightning to his left shoulder. Rigid pain burst through his entire arm, but somehow his legs shifted, regaining the balance momentarily lost by the impact, and his right hand rose, bringing the katana into a guard position.

All at once, Harry realized what was happening. Suddenly fearful, he struggled to regain control of his own mind and body—and with a sudden burst of dark heat, Darksun pushed Harry down into the core of his own soul. He had just an instant to recognize the cloudless blue sky above him and the sensation of falling before his vision grew dark, and he knew nothing more.

* * *

Davis knew something had gone wrong almost the instant before it happened. Harry's aura had changed – just slightly at first, a faint tinge and swell, an alteration in emotion which was out of place in a friendly, relatively safe spar between acquaintances. He tensed, and in that moment everything went wrong.

Harry froze without cause or warning. The lightning struck him, and John's face was an image of shock merging into panic as the smaller boy's body convulsed and he stumbled back. And then his stance was no longer his, nor his movements, nor his aura. In the blink of an eye Harry had disappeared, and something older, stronger, and darker had taken his place.

He swore, flashed between Tanner and not-Harry, and swung Starshot out of his sheath and into an overhead blow in a single motion. The black blade caught it without care or effort; Davis had almost expected that. What he didn't expect was looking into Harry's eyes and seeing, not brilliant green, but burning gold – looking into Harry's face and finding it masked by a terrible, closed scowl rather than the open emotions it usually displayed.

"Tanner, back!" Davis barked, sensing the junior member of his squad obey immediately, a snap reaction born of battlefield training rather than any sense of unease in himself.

"You – who are you?" he then demanded.

"Dark Sun," came the reply, low and clear. It wasn't even Harry's voice – a little too old, noticeably deepened, and marked by a faint, disturbing echo. Starshot trembled against the black blade.

"What are you doing to Harry? He's your wielder – you shouldn't be _out_ here."

Skinny muscles flexed, and with strength far beyond what a small thirteen-year-old body should have been able to exert, Darksun broke the lock between their blades, knocking Davis back bodily.

"Chief Davis," the spirit blade intoned softly. "I'm going to fight you. I'll probably even hurt you. Sorry about this...but Harry has got to learn, and this is the only thing I can think to do now."

"Learn what?" Davis demanded, backing up swiftly and readying his blade and a binding spell. The training ground was clear – everybody knew better than to get involved in a fight with a squad chief unless you were another chief yourself. With luck, Tanner or one of the officers would have run for help just in case – Chief Hawthorne, perhaps, or Chief Storm – and this conflict wouldn't last long.

The aura around the boy flared into visibility, and it was black edged in red.

"To take me seriously," said the spirit through his wielder's body, and faster than Davis' eyes could track, he closed the gap between them.

* * *

When material blades clash in battle, the metal vibrates. These vibrations, in turn, shake the very molecules of the surrounding air, creating waves of sound, and the hands gripping the hilts, offering information about the speed and force of each strike, the angle of impact, and more. The mind of the swordsman receives both sound and information on an instinctive level, and without analyzing it – without even thinking about it – he reacts to those vibrations.

Spirit blades resonate on these levels and far, far more.

Once, years ago, the boy who was Dark Sun realized this. He recognized the vibrations he felt through the contact of his blade against another's and found himself peering into the heart of his opponent, catching brief glimpses of what filled it in that moment and reacting accordingly. At first his reactions were purely instinctive, and only later did they become reflective, but whether he recognized it or not those reverberations in the soul had always been present.

Somehow, he had forgotten in those intervening idle years...or, rather, he simply hadn't thought about it, for he no longer experienced it as he had long ago.

But now he was both the wielder and the blade, both the transmitter and the receiver of these vibrations, and the force of them momentarily took him off guard. His blade struck the sealed form of Starshot, and it was like a blinding blue light flashing in his head, telling him not only _how _Davis had parried but also what he felt, what he feared, what he prayed to accomplish with all his skill and being.

Darksun twisted away from the hand half-hidden by the angle of their swords, and the thick stream of orange light coiled through thin air where his torso had once been.

Davis had used the sound and the position of their clashing blades to cover his mumbled deathspell. A seal – a spell which would immobilize but not harm. He meant to simply stop Darksun in his tracks.

And if he couldn't, then he would battle Darksun here until others could.

Darksun gritted his teeth, reappeared at Davis' back, and slashed. This time he was ready for the brilliance of the clash and the echoes of worry and fear, imprints of plans half-formed and tactics prepared. And this time he received something else, something beneath even the deepest part of his heart: a human face, stern and utterly unfamiliar, with a mouth slightly open as though caught in the act of speaking.

The more Darksun and Starshot collided, the clearer this face became, the longer-lasting the image, the more animated the expression. Words began to slip through, half-heard and utterly unintelligible, yet distracting enough that he increasingly found himself on the defensive of what he had intended to be a very brief, very thorough curbstomp battle.

Frustration rose; he had killed a bankai-level Aizen before the door of the Spirit King's own throne room. He had literally passed through Hell to get there. He had defeated Captains of the Gotei 13 back when he hadn't even _realized_ half of the power at the very _surface _of his soul.

_No_ simple Chief of the English Soul Society should be driving him backwards with passive spells and superficial attacks.

But as Darksun's aggression rose, so did the strength of the reverberations between the swords, until suddenly, with one mighty clash, something foreign grabbed hold of him and _yanked_.

He stumbled, raising his sword arm only to suddenly realize that he no longer held a sword. His vision caught up with his mind and he realized that not only was he standing at his own height rather than Harry's but that the world seemed somehow more _grey_ than it had before, that he stood beside Harry's body, frozen in time, and that someone else now stood beside Davis' similarly frozen form.

The figure was impossible to see, enshrouded by a shapeless drape of white fabric, as though someone had taken a man-sized and particularly voluminous pillowcase, cut a hole in the top, and shoved it over their head. The face, however, belonged to a middle-aged man, serene, lightly creased, and graying at the temples. An unadorned silver circlet sat on his brow above ice-blue eyes, and a thin silver chain around his neck carried a circular pendant etched with a knotted star, resting against his breast.

Without asking, Darksun knew he was looking at Davis' spirit blade, Starshot.

For a long time, the two blades simply regarded each other without speaking. Then the one in white folded his arms – the pillowcase-robe had sleeves attached, it seemed – and spoke with a calm sternness.

"This is not right. Why are you doing it?"

"To teach him," Darksun replied stubbornly.

"To 'take you seriously?' That is no wisdom, and this is no lesson."

"I said it already: it's the only thing I can think of anymore. Talking, reasoning, pushing him and giving him space...nothing else worked. And if you're just going to lecture me, I'm going to end this and go back right now."

Darksun jerked his head sideways, indicating Harry's form with the motion. Though he stood outside the body, it still bore his eyes and traces of his determined glare.

"Very well. You wish to teach him and to impart knowledge and wisdom. In that case, I wish to ask you one more question: why did you become a spirit blade?"

Darksun opened his mouth to answer, but in that instant it was already too late to do so. Starshot had flashed across and seized his wrist in one hand, and the resonance was the strongest yet. Every thought Kurosaki Ichigo had experienced before the throne room, every fear and every hope, flashed between them in something more than words. Every reason behind the decision was laid clear, and as he jerked his arm away, cutting off the connection, one wordless, layered thought hovered above all else: _I Must Protect – __**I Need Power**_.

Defensively, Darksun struck back.

"And what about you, then?"

Starshot extended an arm willfully. Darksun glared at him and seized the wrist beneath the white cloth. An instant later he released the other blade's hand, confusion and curiosity fighting his defensive anger for dominance.

"Quincy?"

Starshot folded his arms across his chest once again.

"So you know of us, though you come from far away. I suppose a clan or two must have reached your lands at some point in the past. Yes, I was a Quincy. No, Soul Reapers are not the only race of spiritual being who contain the potential to take a new and different path at will. And I, unlike you, truly did it purely to pass on my knowledge. To teach. As our world was torn apart by the protectors of souls, I sought to preserve our culture and technique, albeit in a different form than the old.

"But you...you and I both know that you cannot say the same."

"At least I don't pry into people's pasts!"

"Everybody has their 'necessary evils.' Some, however, push necessity too far."

"And you think that's what _I'm_ doing?"

"I had to know your motivations, all of them, before I judged you myself. Too often these are disregarded, perhaps simply because they are so hard to discover."

Darksun wasn't immediately sure what to say.

"You don't have a right," he ground out at last, "to _judge_ me for anything."

"A right? Perhaps not – who knows? As for position, however...your actions set yourself up to be judged by my own wielder. I am part of him. I have a duty to discover that which he cannot, and to share my knowledge should he seek it out."

"I'm part of Harry; Davis wouldn't do anything to hurt him," Darksun shot back. "Not even to get to me."

"You hardly know my wielder well enough to say what he would or would not do," Starshot warned him. "You presume much by doing so."

Darksun waved the warning away. If Davis were so willing to risk harm to Harry, he would have fired something which caused more damage than simple nets, ropes, and imprisoning domes of spiritual energy. Bindings could be broken, as Darksun well knew; for most, it would be far harder to spontaneously recover from wounds taken in the midst of battle. If Davis truly wished to capture Darksun without regard for Harry's wellbeing, he'd be trying to take off a hand or cripple a leg in between his binding spells, not simply stall him there until some half-imagined and hoped-for aid could arrive.

"You hardly know _me _well enough to say what I mean to do and whether or not it's 'evil,' as you put it," Darksun pointed out. "Believe me: this is the only way. Nothing else worked. Not even a personal threat did much to motivate him. Harry _has_ to defeat me...and in order to do so, he's got to _want _to."

"And you truly think that this is the only option."

It was phrased like a question, but delivered like a statement. Darksun let his firm, unwavering glare serve as a reply in turn.

"Very well," Starshot said at last. He nodded to Darksun and vanished, returning to Davis. The world seemed a little brighter, but equally still. Darksun took a deep breath –

And, back in Harry's body, flashed around Davis in his nigh-untrackable mixture of shunpo and sonido. He ducked another writhing orange rope of light, spun over the half-hearted flash of a still-sealed blade, and finally saw an opening. His black blade darted forward, and the tip laid open a narrow gash from the back of the man's left shoulder nearly to the same hip. Davis lurched forward with a brief cry, stumbling.

Darksun hesitated, wondering if he should follow up immediately with yet another blow.

That moment of stillness and distraction cost him dearly.

The glowing blue chain of light whirled out of nowhere – not from Davis' hands, which Darksun had been watching, but from a point off to the right and out of his line of vision. It caught him unawares, and he cursed internally as the deathspell wound around his arms and chest, slamming him into the ground as both ends anchored themselves in the earth. Darksun immediately set to breaking it, yelling inarticulately as he arched his back, straining against the rapidly weakening pressure...

Something heavy slammed into his back, pinning him to the ground again. An instant later, close-set poles of light sprung up inches from his nose, repeating a narrow crossing pattern in a box around him. Darksun yelled again and squirmed beneath the weight, flexing his spiritual pressure, pressing against that which trapped him...

"The Living Reaper, attacking one of our own? A Chief, no less? Terrible. And yet...I always feared it, somehow."

Darksun glanced up slightly, turning his head sideways. Outside the bars of the deathspell cage towered an older man, strong and white-haired with age. He wore a white star on his shoulder, topped by the numeral _V, _and the shirt beneath his coat was earthy brown. He looked down on Darksun – on Harry – coldly, as though he had just witnessed an expected betrayal yet was beyond any emotion of smug or righteous indignity.

"Wait – Warren!" gasped Davis, who was still just out of Darksun's sight. He resumed his wriggling and pressing, feeling the chains creak and the weight shift just slightly.

"Richard. Do you need a medic? Please, don't exert yourself."

Davis finally moved into sight, his left arm limp and his right hand wound about it, holding it steady. Blood ran down the back of his coat, dripping on the ground.

"It's not Harry!" he insisted. "It's not Harry at all – it's the sword. The sword rebelled...don't ask the council to punish Harry for it."

"We cannot allow this to go unmentioned," Warren replied with a frown. The weight on Darksun's back cracked audibly; he murmured a quick spell, flicked his fingers, and drove the spirit blade to the ground again. Darksun felt others approaching fast – strong others, Gwen Hawthorn and Blake Storm among them. He writhed desperately, flaring his aura, but no matter how he wore away at the bindings, he knew he couldn't get out quickly enough.

"We won't," Davis replied immediately, turning his eyes toward Darksun. "But Harry doesn't need to punished or reprimanded. In fact, he needs to be protected, and we can do that."

"What are you suggesting?" Warren asked with a frown, just as Hawthorn, Storm, and a young, proud-looking woman wearing deep violet under her coat flashed into view.

Davis closed his eyes for a moment.

"The spirit blade is dangerous, to Harry and to those around him."

Those blue-grey eyes then opened, boring into Darksun's burning gold without flinching. He took a breath, and suddenly Darksun knew what Starshot had meant by judgment, and how they might be able to reach him without harming Harry directly.

He himself had mentioned it to his wielder, months ago.

He struggled anew, cracking through the chains, the block, and severely weakening the cage before the weighty binding spells of four powerful chiefs bore down on him, silencing his desperate scream so that Davis' words seemed to ring in the void Darksun's echoing voice had left behind.

"Seal him."

* * *

**A/N2: **I tend to insert things I've learned recently into stories. For instance, now that I've been through the bulk of a Shakespeare class, I want so much to have Darksun explain some of the finer points of the plays and such to Harry. Sadly, this scene would only come off as lecture-like unless I found a creative way to manage it.

You may have noticed this tendency with the _Dream of the Rood_ segments. What can I say? I learned a bit about the poem in the context of learning about Old English (did you know, by the way, that Shakespeare is actually written in (early) Modern English?) and I was inspired. I could use the concept, though I wrote it as an actual tree rather than a golden cross on which Christ was hung (eh, artistic license...in either direction). This brings me to a bit of trivia for you:

The concept of an English afterlife in which a soul 2,000 years dead lives, works, and communicates with a soul newly dead is not linguistically viable...unless there's some heavy-duty language learning going on in one direction or the other.

Compared to other world languages, English has undergone some of the most drastic and most rapid changes in grammar and lexicon imaginable. About 1000 years ago, natives of the island were speaking something similar to German or Norse, perhaps just beginning to move toward Middle English. Modern English developed a few hundred years later. Even then pronunciation was different and certain words were used which are not now (and vice versa). People in Shakespeare's day spoke like (in my Professor's words) Irish Pirates in terms of accent. In other words, they all sounded sort of like Hagrid. That's just four hundred years ago.

Now, I enjoy my realism and I love my languages...but I am not, repeat, _not_ going to go through and give all my older soul reapers Hagrid-accents and Shakespeare-syntax and gradate it down to modern soul reapers. I will occasionally use an archaic word in the speech of one of these older souls (see Phineas using "fain" above) but that will be all. I won't break my brain on it, or expect you to break yours.

That said, enjoy your food for thought, inappropriate as it seems after that little cliffhanger...


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: **_First off, I truly apologize for leaving this as long as I did. I can, of course, offer a litany of excuses, from exploring new fandoms to having trouble writing difficult scenes to the guilt of attempting to write Fanfiction when my own original works are just as stalled yet more important in a practical sense should I ever want to get published. In the end, it just equals another year without an update._

_Some of this chapter feels rushed – in part because events either pan out rather like in the book (as in Quidditch games) or, if they are different, they are different in a way which might be acknowledged yet doesn't carry much plot significance. In another part, it's because it's easier to wash past and imply action or dialogue that's giving you writer's block in the details. I also really want to finish this story, which isn't going to be easy when it's taken me this long and I'm not even through Harry's third year yet._

_This does bring me to a question. I will try my best to write this out fully and to the end, but as I said, original writings should take precedence and fresher ideas keep trying to. If I find myself stuck again for a long period of time, long enough to test your patience and interest once more, would you prefer I write out the major points of the plot I had planned and upload them as a chapter of bite-sized chunks, bullet points, and snapshots? I will still tend toward the verbose – I often can't stop myself – but there will be fewer transitions and the dialogue will tend to be truncated and adapted toward snatches or generalizations (ie. _Harry and Darksun argue. Harry thinks [blahblahblah], Darksun wants [yaddayadda], Harry refuses to fight, Darksun slams him into the tree and threatens him_...etc) and the smaller, character-building scenes might be lost or only briefly alluded to. Part of me thinks this may be preferable to leaving the story hanging forever – I know I'd rather read a snapshot outline than have no idea how it ends at all – but another part feels like it'd be a cop-out of sorts to do so without warning or, better yet, consent._

_Thank you all for your patience, and extra thanks to many of you for your requests and reminders even as time dragged on without word from me. This chapter is owed to everyone who reviewed or sent me PMs. I truly, truly appreciate hearing from you all, even if I don't reply to you directly._

_Thank you._

* * *

_This must be what a goldfish feels like_...

The strange thought came wavering through his mind, vaguely born and quickly dismissed, but the sensations which gave rise to it lingered. He felt heavy, not internally but as though weighted down by the pervasive, relentless pressure of water in place of air, and though he breathed it was lightly, faintly, as if his lungs could hardly bother themselves to keep moving. Awareness and memory rose and fell in waves, acute and logical one moment, empty and rambling the next. Sight, sound, smell, even that unnamed sixth sense which so often made up for the weaknesses of the other five, all of these were dimmed and distorted, as though he was indeed muffled and trapped inside a curved glass bowl.

A moment of almost-clarity passed, and he noticed a dim discomfort radiating from his neck and back. Something solid was pressed against the back of his upright shoulders, and his body slumped in a loose curve from there to whatever his legs were sprawled out across.

He thought of shifting, either drawing himself firmly up or else laying fully down, but the even weight of air pressing down on his every limb dissuaded him. The discomfort wasn't so bad after all. He would rest, just for a few more moments, until he felt stronger.

His eyes slipped closed – _just one moment_ – then opened and something had changed. There was a different feel to the air, subtle and annoyingly familiar, like a half-heard word he couldn't quite catch in a voice he swore he knew. Something was there, just beyond the distortion, a dark blob he could only somewhat see. He squinted, roused himself just a little, and became more aware than he had been since who knew how long.

Harry stood in front of him, fidgeting with his coat and sword belt. His eyes shifted constantly between Darksun's face, the ground, and the curved wall which stood between them, shimmering like a heat mirage. Darksun looked back at him, and he remembered.

"_Don't touch the wall," _he rasped. His voice sounded terrible, and Harry jolted a little, surprised to hear him speak at all. "_Packs a nasty punch._"

Harry blinked, confused, and shook his head.

"I already did," he said, and pressed his hand against the almost-visible barrier between them in display. Darksun felt the keen desire to leap forward, to push Harry away the instant before the boy's fingers made contact, but he barely twitched against the weight. No matter: the power there merely rippled around Harry's palm, harmless.

"_Just on my side, then,_" the spirit sword observed, wishing once again he had the strength to shift into a more comfortable position leaning against the great oak tree. "_Makes...sense, I guess."_

The confusion had cleared, and Harry once again looked conflicted and miserable.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked in a sudden rush, not looking directly at Darksun anymore.

For a long while, Darksun sat quietly, gathering his thoughts. Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to look his spirit blade in the face.

"_Thought it'd work," _he replied at length, speaking slowly as his thoughts, more disjointed than usual, spun into place and made sense. "_Make you fight. It did before. On...myself."_

"You're not a hollow...me. I'm not you, Dark."

The spirit blade stared at Harry for a long time, drinking in the boy's appearance with a vague sense of distant, stunned realization. He knew Harry was short, and still scrawny, and only just barely entering that stretched and gangling stage which characterized teenagers, still bearing a certain roundness in his cheeks and shoulders and eyes. He _knew_. He just hadn't truly let the meaning of it sink in until that moment, slouching drained and trapped beneath a transparent seal. Harry wasn't another Kurosaki Ichigo, recklessly fifteen and stubborn and already scarred by street fights with local gangs. He wasn't even, say, another Hitsugaya Toshiro, baby-faced yet old and powerful and hardened by more long years of battle and sacrifice than his appearance suggested.

Harry wasn't a full reaper, for whom age meant nothing to appearance. He was exactly as young as he looked – a small-for-his-age thirteen-year-old child, undeniably brave when it came to the lives and safety of others yet caught by all the personal uncertainties of a young human being. Moreover, he was a boy whose only living family had never cared for him, whose mentors were largely too distant – physically or emotionally – to confide in, who had only just discovered his parents in death and his godfather in life and didn't see enough of either, and who had tried to reach out to the one being he thought he could completely trust – one who was part of him, yet another person altogether – and the realization of what Darksun had unwittingly done seized his lungs in an iron grip.

Fight or flight. He'd expected too much, too quickly perhaps, and turned on Harry in a show of violence when the boy showed his reluctance – his vulnerability, even. Harry had already made it perfectly clear that he wouldn't, even couldn't, bring himself to fight Darksun. Not yet. What, then, was left for the boy's instincts to decide except to run, to hide?

He hadn't thought it all through. He'd expected some fear, some reluctance – hadn't he experienced the same when half of himself started acting up? – but had forgotten that Harry lacked a Rukia, a precious companion who could see his despair, fathom the source, and kick the fight back into him.

He had forgotten that Harry was a thirteen-year-old who insisted on shouldering too much sometimes, and who had trouble sharing the burden, particularly such a personal one.

He had forgotten, or at least disregarded, that Harry _didn't hate him._

"_I screwed up_," he murmured, still with a slightly stunned air about him, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in front of him, looking down at his intertwined fingers.

"I sort of did, too," Harry admitted. "I shouldn't have ignored you – I should've _tried_ to talk to you, or at least to find a way to help or something."

"_Some pair we are, huh?_" Darksun huffed with a flash of a smile, not sure what to say and trying for levity. It barely drew a quirk of the mouth from his reaper before falling flat. "_Look...Harry. I'm sorry. I mean it. Not because it got me...well. This. But, really. I didn't think._"

"And maybe I thought too much?" Harry suggested, stubbornly holding onto his share of the blame even as Darksun tried to tug it away. They shared a hesitant look – not quite a smile, but something that flickered with tentative warmth.

"_Not that it really matters now. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon._"

"Yeah, about that...I tried to talk to them. They won't let up. They think it's for my own good."

"_Maybe it is._"

"If it was, I don't think you would have apologized."

Darksun shrugged. Whether this was true or not, again, hardly mattered at that point. Maybe he deserved it, maybe he didn't, but either way here he was and here he would remain for...goodness knew how long.

He made a mistake, a really dumb move, and while other peoples' mistakes and actions might have factored into it, he was the one who took that step in the end. His friends, the other Shinigami especially, would probably tell him he had to man up and fix whatever he messed up, but he'd never made this sort of error before, nor one that landed him in this kind of situation. All he could think to do was break free somehow and...well, continue to train Harry. And that ended _so well_ the last time he tried.

Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this. Maybe the real mistake, at the root of it all, was not being fast enough or strong enough even as an independent Zanpakuto, not stopping Aizen from landing those blows that slowly overcame his regeneration and killed him. He should never have died, so that he would never have been reborn here, in the mind of this wizard, so young he's still practically a child. If he had just fought harder, held on tighter, _lived_...

If only, if only.

Too late now for anything _but _regrets.

_Unless..._

He was zoning out again, and Harry couldn't miss seeing it. A touch awkwardly, the boy offered the sort of goodbye given to the imprisoned by the guilt-ridden free. He gave a fervent promise to come by often, to talk like they used to, underlined by a less clearly spoken but still heartfelt oath to not leave Darksun alone again if only for the sakes of their own minds. Dark acknowledged his words with a nod and a wave and an attempt at a smile even as his thoughts rushed down another track entirely, one comprised of fixing mistakes and the useful implications he could see in time travel and the sheer _convenience _of being, currently, in the year _1994_, ten whole years before the incident that started it all...

He could change things. Everything. The possibilities nearly overwhelmed him as he slouched immobile against the wide bole of a mental oak tree. He could save Rukia from execution early, perhaps even expose Aizen and all his plans before they progressed too far. He could give his own past self, and all his friends, the knowledge and even the training they often gained too late. He could prevent Inoue's kidnapping so that the forces of Soul Society would not be split. He could stop Aizen from converting Karakura into the Key.

He could keep it all from going wrong.

Ten years. He had ten whole years to prepare, and maybe he could even move against Aizen just a little bit sooner than that. Ten years for planning, ten years for Harry to grow into an adult and into his powers, ten years and Darksun could explain everything once he had it all figured out...

The lethargy came back to grip him, pulling him gently yet inexorably down into unconsciousness. At first Darksun fought to keep his eyes open, determined to linger on the ideas which should have occurred to him before now, the thoughts which could change everything, save everyone...

His eyes slipped closed.

He slept, drained and imprisoned, with a faint, hopeful smile lingering about the corners of his mouth.

* * *

Hagrid lost Buckbeak's trial; a full afternoon was spent in his cottage, feeling generally useless and miserable and trying to coax him into drinking his giant mug of tea rather than just crying into it. Harry and his friends assured him there would be an appeal, that they would try extra hard with their research this time, but every one of them knew, deep down, that it was near-hopeless. Seeing Buckbeak ripping into a dead ferret with his usual unconcerned gusto was far harder than it normally was, and for quite a different reason. True to their word, however, they threw themselves into the fight for Buckbeak's life, though it mostly fell to Ron as, between courses and Quidditch, he had the most unoccupied time out of the trio.

Then came the Easter holidays, which each and every professor seemed to view as more free time than any student could possibly know what to do with, and even Ron found himself more and more bogged down by other tasks.

And for all that Harry thought himself practically buried under piles of homework and cares and responsibilities, he had to admit that it was _nothing_ compared to Hermione's workload. She might have dropped Divination (and after yet another incident in which Trelawney declared she saw a dark-winged Angel of Death hovering over Harry's shoulder in the crystal ball, he was tempted to follow Hermione's example) but even so she was taking more classes than should have been humanly possible.

"Come on, Hermione, take a break," they tried to persuade her one evening. She had commandeered an entire table in the common room for herself. Books, both from her courses and from the library, towered over her head on either side, framing impressive stacks of parchment and half-unfurled scrolls laid out under paperweights to allow the still-glistening ink time to dry. Hermione herself sat in the center of the organized chaos, three different tomes propped open in front of her and her quill flying across parchment as she feverishly enumerated the subtle differences between a true quick-growing vineladder plant and a common bean sprout that had been enchanted.

"Can't," she replied shortly. "Too busy; I've got to get this done by Friday."

"You've got three feet already! Professor Sprout only asked for two and a half."

"Yes, well, not all of us do just the bare minimum allowed, Ron," she snapped abruptly, closing one book with a thud and turning the page of another.

"Why are you writing about Devil's Snare as well?" Harry asks, leaning over the book in question and seeing nothing about either enchanted beans or vineladder plants on the pages in sight.

"It's a related plant and I'm cross-referencing the common growth rates and patterns now please leave me alone!"

The look in her eyes was quickly approaching something manic; Harry and Ron wisely and immediately retreated to the other side of the common room.

Then Easter passed and the final Quidditch match rapidly approached, and every time Harry so much as crossed Oliver Wood's path he was reminded of his part in their game strategy. If he heard any rendition of the words "only if we're more than fifty points up" one more time, Harry thought he might actually yell at his team captain.

The weeks leading up to the game were tense, to put it lightly. More fights broke out in the corridors in that short span of time than had been seen since the start of the year. Each and every Gryffindor seemed to have volunteered for escort duty around the members of their team, particularly Harry; he could hardly get to class on time anymore, though it did seem to deter various Slytherins from attacking him, particularly Crabbe and Goyle (who were anything but subtle in their intentions, as they had a habit of turning up cracking their knuckles and then slinking away with very disappointed expressions on their wide, slow faces).

Harry had never felt so nervous before a game, unless it was his very first back when he was a first year, concerned with whether bludgers had ever killed a player or not. He had trouble falling asleep (talking to Darksun for nearly an hour didn't help) and was woken by unsettling dreams at some horrible dark hour in the morning, though thankfully he managed to drop back off for the few hours left to him before breakfast. There, like Oliver – like all of the team, really – he had no appetite. It was only at Oliver's insistence that he managed to choke down a single triangle of toast, the warm buttered bread laying as dry as ash against his tongue and throat.

Perhaps, from one perspective, they shouldn't have been so worried – they were, without doubt, a fine school Quidditch team. Against the Slytherins, who were largely lined up for brute size and muscle rather than skill or teamwork, they were brilliant. Still, aside from Harry's Firebolt, the Slytherins had the better-quality brooms, the Nimbus 2001s still of a better-than-decent class even a year after their release, and on top of that was the pressure of their stipulation for victory: a two-hundred point lead or better.

They couldn't rely on Harry alone to make their victory. Each and every player had to be at the top of his or her game, and the Slytherins were notorious cheaters, knew what the Gryffindors would be aiming for, and had no such point stipulations on their complete victory.

They were good, but the odds were stacked against them.

From that perspective, there was more than enough worry to go around.

And then, at last, the time came. Harry exited the changing rooms with his teammates to the roar of three-quarters of the crowd and the enthusiastic words of Lee Jordan, introducing them and deriding the Slytherins and ducking McGonagall's wrath, same as always, until...

"And we are joined here in the stands by a very special and even unexpected guest – allow me to say that at the beginning of the year I would never have expected I'd be saying this – recently revealed to be innocent and cleared of all former charges, Sirius Black!"

"Captains, shake hands!" Madame Hooch ordered near-simultaneously, but Harry wasn't watching Flint and Oliver try to break each other's fingers. His gaze had flown fast as the Snitch toward the box where the professors generally sat, along with Lee, and searched quickly for that familiar face.

It didn't take too long to find him, seated beside Dumbledore. His hair and beard were, perhaps, shorter and more neatly trimmed than they had been last time Harry had seen him, but the grin stretching his cheeks was just the same as ever before, and he was as obnoxiously decked out in red and gold as Snape was in green. Perhaps even more so; Snape, at least, had refrained from bringing a flag in his house's colors, wearing garish rosettes or pins on his chest, or donning any kind of ridiculous hat.

Sirius caught Harry's eye and yelled something that couldn't be made out above the crowd but looked very encouraging if his continuing smile and the energetic waving of his flag were anything to go by. Harry didn't have time to respond; the order had been given to mount their brooms, and he had to scramble slightly to follow it.

Then the whistle was blown, the balls released, and Harry shot up into the sky, more determined than ever to do his house, his team, his friends, his parents and his godfather proud.

* * *

"—and then Malfoy grabbed the tail of my broom, and I swear I've never seen Hooch so angry—"

"I imagine so!" James Potter scoffed. "That's low – only thing he could've done worse is actually shove you off."

"Mmh. Didn't matter in the end, though; I still got to the Snitch first, and we won the Cup!"

"I wish we could've seen it," Lily chimed in, leaning back on their couch. They were in the Potters' home, chatting comfortably and nursing hot chocolate and biscuits. Only a week ago Goodman had sent word of Harry's general approval in the Wizard's realm of the Afterlife despite his ties to the Center, and the Potters had very much appreciated the change of circumstance as a whole.

"I wish you could've also."

"Well, sadly, aside from the whole gate issue, there's the fact that magic has odd effects on our auras," James said, licking melted streaks of chocolate chips off his fingers. "I've definitely never seen it, but I have it on some authority that the really saturated places – Stonehenge, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, even the Ministry – make spirits visible to everybody there, not just to the few with a strong aura of their own. So as much as we'd love to hide away in the stands and watch if we could...eh, it's probably not the best idea."

"Really? I thought it was just something all wizards could do – see ghosts and such."

"Nope – only at Hogwarts or other spots that've seen heavy magic. Otherwise it's supposed to be really rare. Apparently Goodman could see more than any of his peers back when he was alive, and even then it was mostly shadows and whispers."

"Huh. So I guess you guys using Mum's spirit blade to sneak through to Hogwarts is out, then?"

"It would be impossible anyhow. Something about those gates seems to require some sort of spell we don't know," Lily pointed out.

"I don't know it either," Harry said blithely. "I only saw the spell done once – Davis called it keying? – it was done to my spirit blade, so I can use it to unlock the gate."

"Nice. Goodman might want to know that; he's been trying to build a gate for ages you know. Maybe the swords are more important than he thinks."

"Maybe; I don't know how it all works, really," Harry admits.

"Eh, doesn't really matter. Goodman's the scientist; he'll figure it out if he can. Any idea what Padfoot's been up to aside from turning up unexpected at Quidditch games?"

* * *

Padfoot, as it turned out, had been up to quite a lot, though for a few weeks to follow Harry didn't know quite what. They exchanged letters fairly regularly, letters in which Sirius hinted at housecleaning and working on a lot of legal-type things and we'll-see-if-it-works-out and not much else of note or consequence, and no matter how Harry begged for details and explanations he refused to embellish in favor of "not getting your hopes up, just in case."

Harry wanted his hopes up; he felt as though his hopes were on a faulty broomstick, rising and falling by turns in a confusing, jumbled mess. On the good side, it took him an entire week to truly come out of the brilliant walking-on-clouds sensation of such a great Quidditch victory; on the bad, it was exams which killed it. On the good side, his godfather was free and apparently working on some project or other Harry might like very much; on the probably-bad-and-emotionally-confusing, his Spirit Blade was still fluctuating between practically comatose and just nastily exhausted, trapped in his mindscape, and there was still no word on when, or if, that would change.

On the good side, he'd definitely aced his defense final; on the definitely-confusing-and-very-unnerving, Trelawney went a little odd after his Divination exam.

They had taken their exams individually – something about clearing the inner eye of distracting mental energies – and Harry had gone last. It was crystal gazing; he'd made something up about Buckbeak escaping his execution and flying away, and though Trelawney had expressed disappointment in the lack of overall doom in his prediction she had probably given him a reasonable passing mark for making an effort.

Then, as he prepared to leave, she went rigid in her armchair, drew a great rasping breath, and spoke in a harsh voice completely unlike her usual misty air.

"_It will happen tonight!"_

"Professor?"

Her eyes rolled slightly, but she gave no sign she had heard Harry speak. In fact, she didn't even seem aware of his presence at all.

"_The key will be taken, the bearer betrayed, and all the skies shall open with flame and fire! The path to the Dark Lord's return shall be laid, and he will come again more terrible than before. The free shall be imprisoned and the imprisoned set free, and death shall come as the phoenix rises once more...tonight...death shall come...from the sky..._"

Trelawney's head nodded, drooped, and then suddenly jerked upright again. She was blinking and bleary-eyed, and seemed to have no idea what had just happened.

"Oh, so sorry dear boy, must've dozed off...the heat of the day..."

"Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Of course I am, of course, merely a little warm it seems, happens so often in the summer months. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just said...never mind. It's not important."

"If you say so. Off you go now, thank you," she waved dreamily, already turning to gaze into the crystal ball herself. Harry scrambled down the rope ladder out of her tower, still half-wondering what had just happened. On the one hand, her words had been very typical of her: death, betrayal, fire and destruction, all imminent and inescapable. On the other, the delivery could not have been more bizarre, as well as her vague and apparent belief that she had simply dozed off.

Was that a particularly unique method of prediction that Trelawney saved specially as a dramatic way to end exams, or had it been a true prophecy?

Harry's musing on the matter was halted abruptly by Hermione and Ron rushing up to him in the hall.

"Harry! Harry, quick!"

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed by their short breath and flushed faces; they looked as though they had run through half the castle to find him.

"Hagrid...Buckbeak..._Sirius_."

* * *

When Harry finally reached Hagrid's hut, it was to find an interesting, almost bizarre tableau waiting for him. He wasn't sure who to look at or question first.

A short wizard in a lime-green bowler hat stood outside Hagrid's hut stiff-backed and with an odd mixture of _impatient_ and _anxious _and just plain _uncomfortable_ flickering across his features. A hooded man with an axe slouched grouchily against the wall. Hagrid hovered uncertainly near his door, wringing his hands, faint tear tracks tracing his cheeks into the wild tangle of his beard. Dumbledore, serene and sparkling-eyed as ever, was reaching up and patting his shoulder. The Headmaster threw a quick smile and an all-will-be-well wink toward Harry as he ran up.

And there, leaning nonchalantly against a post of the paddock fence where Buckbeak stood tethered, dressed neatly but casually in a bright red shirt and dark slacks and an open-fronted black robe, was Harry's godfather.

"Harry, there you are!" he called, saving Harry the trouble of deciding for himself who to speak to. "Sorry to make you rush, but we needed you to show Minister Fudge something, if you don't mind..."

The minister mumbled something about dangerous beasts and unnecessary risk, but Sirius breezed past him, ushering Harry to the gate in the fence.

"Hagrid says you've met Buckbeak here before, and that you two took a liking to each other?"

"Er...yeah?" Harry guessed. It must have been the right answer, because Sirius shot him a bright and rather conspiratorial grin and squeezed his shoulder supportively.

"Well then," the man gestured expansively, and Harry understood that much, though he still wasn't quite sure why unless it was somehow a plan to save the hippogriff, in which case...

"Now hold on," Fudge spluttered, having found the courage to speak up at last. "A bluff is one thing, but that's a dangerous, _condemned_ beast!"

Hagrid let out a brief moan at the word 'condemned.' Fudge ignored the sound; he wasn't done yet.

"Actually _letting_ a child approach—"

"_Buckbeak_ is a noble creature, and this is an appeal to clear him of _trumped up charges_," Sirius argued back, placing such special emphasis on the last part that Fudge deflated before their eyes. "Harry has had no problem with him before and will have none now because he knows to treat him with respect."

He paused, waited for Fudge to keep fighting, but all the fight seemed gone. Still forcedly stiff, yet somehow diminished, the minister forced a jerky nod, as though trying to convey 'get on with it' and 'on your own head be it' in one nervous gesture.

Harry turned away from the adults then and approached Buckbeak calmly and confidently, and the great grey hippogriff stopped rooting around for grubs and insects to regard him in turn. Holding eye contact, Harry bowed.

Buckbeak hardly seemed to pause to consider the motion. Immediately, almost casually, he bowed back and returned to his foraging, completely unconcerned by Harry's further approach or by the touch of his hand rubbing his pepper-grey wing joint. Rather than turning on him violently as the minister so clearly expected, Buckbeak leaned into the contact, butting his head briefly against Harry's shin before digging his beak back into the earth.

"Well, I should think that settles it," Dumbledore said, having led Hagrid around to watch. "Sirius has demonstrated his own competence in handling the hippogriff, and Harry similarly has no problems. You've seen the plans drawn up and you must admit they are thorough, minister. Every precaution has been taken and it now seems quite clear that Buckbeak's condemnation was the result of a regrettable accident compounded by an..._overzealous_ reaction on our parts."

Not quite sure what was going on any more, Harry smoothed out the lay of Buckbeak's shoulder feathers and watched as Fudge shifted and dithered about before nodding very reluctantly.

"Yes, yes I suppose it is a...better alternative. Certainly less regrettable, this sort of business is always so...uncomfortable." He paused and cleared his throat. "I cannot guarantee everyone at the ministry will be completely happy with the circumstances, but—"

"Justice should prevail," Dumbledore said, nodding knowingly as though he was simply agreeing with something Fudge had already said.

"Yes, quite. Well, then. I suppose I had best get the papers drawn up, stamped and signed. Er, if you would, Mr. Black, we'll need your signature as well on the certification..."

"Course," Sirius said, throwing a wink at a bewildered Harry. "When do you want me?"

"Oh, I don't...tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"

"That'll do, thanks. Is it all right if Buckbeak stays here for another week or two while everything is squared away?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose as long as students are kept well clear, just in case. It's been...more a pleasure than I expected, I suppose, gentlemen."

Fudge then bid them all a good day and called the executioner, Macnair, to return with him to the Ministry. Macnair spat nastily into the grass at his feet, hefted his axe over his shoulder with a dour glare, and stumped off after the minister, who seemed to be walking at a rate which suggested he was trying to leave quickly yet with as much dignity intact as possible.

"That certainly went well," Dumbledore observed cheerily. Anything else he might have said was cut off by a great wail from Hagrid, who leapt forward suddenly onto a startled Sirius, grabbing him in an alarmingly massive hug.

"_Thank you, thank you!_" he kept chanting between tears of what Harry guessed to be relief, as Buckbeak hadn't lost his head and evidently wasn't going to. At last Hagrid released Harry's godfather, who staggered slightly before regaining his balance – and breath – against the same post he had been leaning against so nonchalantly when Harry had first come out.

Then Hagrid wheeled toward Harry, beaming through his watery eyes, and Harry had the distinct impression that only the fence between them and his own proximity to Buckbeak spared him from similar treatment.

"Yeh saved him! Yeh saved Beaky!"

"Er, great!" Harry said, still a little stupefied. "But...how?"

If it had really been as simple as proving before a witness that another student could handle Buckbeak without a mauling, then surely Harry, Ron and Hermione would have come up with that themselves, wouldn't they? Yet Sirius himself had said that their testimonies would have been disregarded as unimportant.

What about that had changed?

As it turned out, most of the really influential change was to be attributed to Sirius himself.

"There is an interesting little by-law in our government," Dumbledore explained once they were all ensconced, with tea and inedible rock cakes, in the comfort of Hagrid's hut. "One shared by a handful of other magical ministries, incidentally. It's rarely invoked – the most recent occurrence actually came about in Germany well over a century ago – but in essence, it allows a condemned creature's life to be spared through the intervention of an unrelated third party. If a fully certified adult wizard can both prove his competence with the creature in question and provide, either immediately or in short time, adequate and secure housing for and, if need be, against said creature, then he may take it in on the proviso that the creature not be given the chance to harm others again, at his own risk of course. There are other restrictions, naturally, but as a Hippogriff who dealt a non-fatal, non-crippling wound, Buckbeak is not subject to those."

"Why didn't we come across that?" Harry wondered, because surely, given the sheer amount of research he and his friends engaged in, it should have been _somewhere_. Not, he thought, that it would have mattered much; they were nowhere near certified adults themselves.

"It's a rare thing, and it's not really well known. It's only because of Dumbledore here that we came up with this plan at all," Sirius admitted. "Of course, me being your godfather and getting custody of you as well put the minister's pants in a right bunch about it, which is why we had you show him Buckbeak's no threat to you either. And then, of course, Fudge is still really nervous about the whole twelve-years-no-trial fiasco; he might have gotten the _Prophet_ not to harp on the matter too much, but the fact remains that it's still there, and I didn't exactly give him an outright _no_ on the matter of recompense. He's a bit eager for me to keep my head down and not raise a fuss about anything, especially against him or the Ministry in general, so that probably helped."

"So Buckbeak's been cleared," Harry summed up with a smile.

"Yep," Sirius agreed. "Cleared, and coming home with us at the end of term."

Harry's smile erupted into an outright grin.

* * *

It wasn't a Saturday night as had become tradition, but that didn't matter anymore with the end of classes. Besides, they had already planned this meeting around two things: a small celebration of the completion of Harry's finals, and Phineas Goodman having some free time that night to give Harry's blade at least a cursory initial study.

And so that night, Harry got his first look at the New Magic Academy.

As with most of the wizarding afterlife's homes and other centers, the Academy was completely underground. It had, however, been built, decorated, spelled and furnished as though it were otherwise, with wood-paneled walls and scrubbed stone floors and windows enchanted, through some style or manipulation of deathspell unlike any Harry had seen practiced in the Center, to show outdoor scenes appropriate to the time of day. In one hallway the windows showed a view of a long moonlit beach; in another, said moon peeked out at him from behind a majestic mountain range over a dark sea of treetops.

Cheerfully bright and softly colored witchlights lined the ceiling at intervals, illuminating their path and the myriad tapestries and paintings lining the walls between each window and door. Harry wanted to examine each one, catching glimpses of wizards still wielding wands and others with glowing swords and once or twice a majestically-robed figure with a staff in one hand and a shining gilded blade offered up in the other (he suspected it might have been Merlin), but they were in a bit of a hurry.

It didn't matter too much; the figures would still be there when Harry returned. It seemed that nobody had figured out a deathspell to make the paintings move.

They found Goodman waiting for them in a room which looked like a cross between a potions laboratory, a library, and what Harry imagined a very old and somewhat disorganized magical antiques shop might resemble. Shelves lined the walls, stacked haphazardly with everything from bound tomes to ribbon-tied scrolls, all stuffed in between bizarre knickknacks Harry couldn't begin to fathom the purpose of. Indeed, many of the items sprawled across the long table down one side of the room or perched on the desk just to one side of the stone fireplace wouldn't have looked out of place in Dumbledore's own office, had they been silvery and some of them shaved down to look more spindly and delicate.

Phineas looked up at the Potters as they entered from where he was bending over a lump of glittering white stone, prodding it with a contraption like a stethoscope attached to a meat thermometer, and a smile split his thin face.

"Welcome!" he said, setting down whatever that tool was. "Sorry about the mess – here, let me clear that off for you – should've straightened up earlier, far too distracted – ah, would that be the blade, then?"

Harry nodded and gripped the hilt of his plain, silvery sword. For the briefest instant he was a little uncertain about handing it over, for the sword was, in a certain way, Darksun himself, and Goodman's laboratory was so foreign, so full of inexplicable gauges and tools and substances that for a moment he was reminded vaguely of the madmen's laboratories he had occasionally glimpsed in one or two of Dudley's more imaginative and story-centric telly programs.

He then shook the uncertainty off, drew the blade from its sheath, and lifted it into Phineas' hands with both of his own. The delicate care with which the man handled the blade, only lightly touching it with his fingertips and immediately laying it on a cleared expanse of tabletop, reassured Harry somewhat, as did the (not usually reassuring) memory that Darksun tended more toward the unconscious these days than not. Even if the tests and scans involved normally caused discomfort, Darksun would feel nothing, being as deeply asleep as any anesthetized patient.

"I truly do appreciate this, Mr. Potter. You care for your blade more than most wizards, don't you?"

"Er, I suppose," Harry hesitantly agreed, because he wasn't sure how much most wizards cared for their spirit blades, but he couldn't deny that as scary as Dark could be (had been), he had felt no true relief at his being sealed away. Instead, he rather wished the spirit were free again, as free and helpful as he had been just last summer.

"Don't worry," Goodman assured him. "He – she? He? – He will feel very little, an occasional tickle if anything at all, according to my own companion."

Goodman nodded toward a corner, where Harry saw his broadsword leaning up against a wall; that did explain why he hadn't seen it across Goodman's back as it usually was.

"He's asleep right now," Harry said. "It won't bother him."

"Good, good. Now I believe your parents said something about plans? Yes? Go on, then, don't let me stop you; come back in a couple of hours and I should be quite finished. And thank you again, very much!"

Harry glanced back as they left to see Goodman carefully running the flat end of the stethescopometer across the guard of the blade, and then the door swung lightly shut behind them.

* * *

Something felt strange. Off. Different.

He twitched as he was roused from his deep sleep, frowned and shifted and murmured drowsily. The tingling sensation abated, and he began to sink back into timeless slumber.

Then it returned, pinching and tickling at his extremities, and his golden eyes popped open with more energy than he had experienced in goodness knew how long. He jerked, flailing against grass and bark for a moment as his body experienced a disorienting phantom sensation of weightlessness. For an instant his befuddled mind thought he was falling and he jolted and gasped, throwing his limbs out to stop his descent, but he was already safely on the ground and the impression of lightness had not faded in the least.

The weight was gone, he realized, gazing up in puzzled wonder at the cloudless blue sky beyond his prison. The weight was gone, and the bubbled shield between him and his former freedom was wavering, flickering, tearing away into shreds that floated away into oblivion.

Tentatively he stood, stretching underused muscles and rotating stiffness out of joints. Cautiously, he reached forward, fingers stretching toward a gap in the shield. For a moment he paused, searching for a warning hum of electric magic.

His hand passed through without harm.

The spell continued to shred away, and within minutes there was a gap big enough for him to walk through without fear of brushing the edges.

He was free.

Only one question remained: _why?_

* * *

Two hours later, after being treated to a very late dinner out and additional sightseeing and the warm glow of time spent with his parents (a glow he'd yet to tire of), Harry wandered back through the halls of the Academy with his dad at one shoulder and his mum at the other. They were taking this walk slowly; Goodman had given them no set time except "a couple hours," which it more or less had been, but James had said that the man had little to no concept of time when he was working on something he found interesting and so they might as well give him a bit more of it.

As a result, Harry received the grand tour of the Academy. He saw a library nearly as impressive as Hogwarts', three different training halls for swords and spells, and myriad classrooms with special attention paid to the one where Lily helped coach and council the newest arrivals through the changes that came with death. He begged a quick exhibition of his father's spirit blade, for he already knew a little of his mother's as she was the source of his notice-me-not capsules, and was surprised by the trickery evident in a blade which gave the illusion of enhancing James' speed while really doing nothing but slightly improving his stamina and projecting images of flashy magical attacks which sometimes didn't really exist.

They showed Harry all three floors of the Academy, starting on the uppermost level (which, being underground, was the equivalent of a ground floor), where Phineas had his office and workroom, and then working their way through the lower stories. They related little anecdotes of everyday life there, pointed out where this took place or that, and explained the legends behind one or two of the tapestries. He had been right about the robed figure with staff and sword; it had, indeed, been a depiction of Merlin holding Excalibur or, as its proper old name was, Caledfwlch.

"Even here, the legends are all muddled about Merlin and Arthur," Lily expounded as they meandered onwards past the moonlit underground windows. "Almost everybody agrees that Arthur was a living reaper, though there's all sorts of division over whether he was a wizard or a muggle originally. As for Merlin, he was supposed to be a powerful wizard and a guide to Arthur, of course, but whether he was just extremely strong in terms of aura despite being alive or already a reaper himself nobody knows. One of the stranger theories actually says that he was the spirit form of Caledfwlch permanently manifested, but there's enough proof against it that very few take it seriously."

"Can you _do_ that? I mean, with your spirit blade – let it out for good?"

James shrugged one shoulder.

"Who knows? Nobody's ever tried. There's not been a reason to, I think, and honestly, drawing it out for just a little while is supposed to be really hard."

"Is that something you want to try doing?" Lily asked, mother's intuition or perhaps a natural perception all her own letting her read the deeper interest behind Harry's question.

"Maybe, if I could. Dark...doesn't like feeling trapped, or helpless," he says, and it's far more than he's ever really shared about his own spirit blade before. He'd told them Darksun's name readily enough, described his appearance, the form of the sword, the fire that blazed along it at command. Hints of fear and helplessness, however, always seemed a little too personal for Harry to share on his sword's behalf.

"He'd like to get out on his own every now and again."

And if Harry could only work out how it was done, it could help. It might not really solve anything, and they'd have to get him out of that seal first, but _it could help._

"Could we go collect him now?" he asks, because suddenly he wants the sword at his side even if the spirit itself is still stuck, half comatose, in the core of his soul.

"Yeah, we can. Phineas should've had plenty of time by now, and if not...we'll just arrange another day."

They were still on the lowest floor, heading for the nearest staircase, when the distant sound of cheering echoed down the halls and reached their ears.

"Hold on, what's that?" James wondered, veering sharply down a connecting corridor.

"James!"

"I'm curious! It's _extremely_ late; the only people who should still be up and in this building are us and the more obsessive bookworm teachers, or perhaps some desperately cramming students. I didn't think there was a game or tournament scheduled, either, so I want to know what's going on."

Lily and Harry exchanged glances, one exasperated and the other torn between his wish to get back to Darksun and the same curiosity currently driving his father further down the dim hallway. At last Lily huffed lightly and hurried on after her husband, grasping Harry's hand in her own.

"I swear, sometimes..."

"Hush, I hear someone talking."

The cheers had died down and the resulting silence was filled by an indistinct, solitary voice, rising and falling in powerful waves like an orator's – like Oliver's, sometimes, when he was particularly fired up before a game. Though they couldn't yet make out any words, it sounded rather to Harry like some kind of pep gathering.

"...this time –morrow," the voice – now recognizable as a woman's – slowly came into hearing range as they approached its source, "_we_...sent..._we _will –trol passage...hard, I know, but...patience has finally been repaid!"

The crowd cheered again, louder than before – or perhaps they were simply closer to the source.

"What in Merlin's name?" James muttered to himself, his brows scrunching up in an expression of confusion.

"I thought these rooms had been cordoned off for repairs," Lily agreed, casting her husband and son worried glances.

"We have gained the key to all our hopes, to our very birthright," the woman continued, her voice echoing as though enhanced by a spell and projected through a large room. "Not one hour ago was it decoded, and it now stands ready, the final piece to our victory!"

Harry didn't much like the sound of that; nor did his parents, if their expressions were anything to go by. Cautiously, the three of them walked the final length of corridor and peered into a vast hall, packed to the brim with robed ex-wizards, all cheering and stomping and letting off bursts of colored light and noise. A stage stood at the far end of the room, and on that stage was a blonde-haired woman robed in deep red, her hands raised triumphantly as she waited for her audience to grow quiet again. They did so soon enough, and she motioned to something just offstage, out of Harry's sight.

"Thanks to our Mr. Goodman, we have in our hands the secret of unlocking the Gates. After untold centuries, both worlds will be ours to walk freely!"

Harry's jaw dropped; Phineas stood on the stage, calm and unruffled as the woman at his side spoke of what sounded unsettlingly like a planned attack against the Center.

"Sinclair," James hissed. "She can't be serious!"

"We need to get out of here," said Lily. "Hurry, to an apparition zone; we can warn-"

She broke off abruptly. Harry spun about only to be met with four grim-looking figures, robed and with spells already dancing on their fingertips.

"Going somewhere?" the foremost man asked with a smirk and a quirked brow. A flash of violet light filled Harry's vision even as he raised his hand and opened his mouth to incant a defense spell, and everything faded to black.

* * *

The Seven Squads of the Center prided themselves on being a well-oiled machine, prepared for any emergency at any hour of the day or night. Even so, they knew better than to boast of never being taken by surprise; their claim was rather that, no matter how surprising or unexpected an event, they would rise to it in record time and handle it with minimal fuss.

They had never before been suddenly attacked in the small hours of the morning by several hundred raging wizard-reapers.

Most of their unexpected opponents converged on the seven gateways; others seemed simply interested in causing as much damage as they possibly could.

In the time it took half the Center to wake up, yank on their trousers and grab their weapons, multicolored fires were blazing in the first, second, and fifth bunkers, and the training fields and roads between each section were torn asunder by the combined force of scores of reasonably strong spirit auras.

"Where the hell did they come from?" Davies roared, raising his released spirit blade and firing another shot from the large, gleaming-silver crossbow it had become. The blue-white quarrel of spirit energy screamed through the air to pierce the shoulder of an invader; the man dropped to the ground, clutching his wound and crying out. He was silenced by a swift deathspell; it was one which caused its target to fall into a deep, abiding sleep if Davies had recognized its signature right.

"Er, Outside?" a younger squad member offered, batting aside an unrecognizable spell with his blade as he spoke. "The Wizards' little secret hideout?"

"I know where they came from, what I want to know is _what they're doing here_."

Davies punctuated each of his final words with another shot into enemy ranks, felling one more and distracting two others from their own targets. He then was forced to cease his attack and duck beneath a hastily conjured shield, hoping it would hold under the sudden barrage of fireballs he had attracted; deathspells had never been his personal forte, especially deathspells cast without the full incantation.

Fortunately for his shield, the counterattack soon cut itself off; either the wizard or witch responsible had been knocked out or killed, or else had been forced to concentrate elsewhere entirely. Davies straightened with a wince and peered through the pre-dawn gloom, but even all the crazed illumination caused by flaring auras and spells and the blue flames currently consuming the stonework of Squad Celaeno's nearby bunker couldn't pierce the smoky, dusty darkness.

"Get me Longstaff," Davies ordered the nearest reaper. When he didn't immediately move, the Asterope chief snapped. "Get Deputy Longstaff here, NOW!"

The young warrior scrambled off immediately, leaving Davies to search for a more defensible pile of rubble from which to pick off the enemy and protect his squad. He wasn't sure how long he had fought or how many enemies had come and gone and fallen and been dragged off for healing when his deputy finally appeared at his side, her cropped hair wild and her sword in hand.

"What's the situation?" he asked immediately, hardly glancing her way as he looked for his next target.

"Celaeno seems crippled," Alyssa responded immediately. "There are more enemy reapers there than what should be. Merope is holding strong, though, and Deputy Ray informed me that Squad Maia has gotten their fires under control and are forcing the invaders back; this was at least fifteen minutes ago. Chief Storm left for the Living World at midnight to handle a large hollow problem around London. If he's not back yet, Squad Alcyone could be in trouble."

"Figures. He's one of our strongest fighters, too," Davies grumbled. "Anything else?"

"We've had no communication with or about any other Squad, and nobody's been taking to the air because of the smoke. The invaders are using a strange form of deathspells. None of the spoken incantations can be recognized, and they've proven adept at weaving spirit particles into physical objects in amazingly short times. The strangest thing, though, is their focus on the Gates..."

"I know; I can't figure it out myself. We know they don't have the spells to open them, and it's not like they can gather any sort of decent data from them in these conditions, so what are they trying?"

"That's just it, sir. They aren't destroying the gates, or even trying to uproot them somehow. They seem to actually be using them."

"That's impossible," Davies protested immediately. "To do that, they'd need a keyed blade."

"I know, sir."

Davies pondered the situation for several long, tense moments, firing a quarrel instinctively when a robed figure snapped abruptly into view. The figure dodged the attack, but was then engaged by an Asterope reaper, and Davies couldn't get another clear shot in.

"When this is over, I want the records checked. Anybody who's gone unaccounted for recently, for any significant period of time; anybody who might have misplaced their blade, again, for any significant period. We've got to find out how they got in."

"That won't be necessary," said a smooth voice behind Davies' back. He snapped Starshot around, bracing his shoulders against the stone he had been sniping from, and glimpsed Alyssa readying herself for an attack.

The woman before them was tall, but strong in stature, with mid-length blond hair braided at the back of her neck and a coldly amused expression on her face. She carried a blade at her side, but it remained sheathed; the sword cradled in her two hands, however, was bare. It was also vaguely familiar. Davies could swear he had seen it before, but not recently or frequently enough to immediately place it.

"No need to get testy. I just thought I might return this. It is one of your keys, is it not?"

She dropped the blade carelessly to the scorched and torn ground between them, where it tumbled to a rest, reflecting the blue firelight off to Davies' left.

"Who did you take that from?"

"Take it? He gave it to us. Granted, he wasn't quite so keen when he found out more than we wished him to, but really, you should have told him to be more careful. He was terribly naive. All we had to do was dangle his family in front of his nose..."

Davies' mind, which had been racing through possibilities, clicked to a sudden halt. He finally recognized that hilt, that blade.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

"Yes, of course," the woman nodded. "The living reaper. A wizard, of course. Too bad you muggles got your claws into him before we could take him in, but perhaps it was for the best; after all, we would never have solved Phineas' precious Gate-opening conundrum without him. Once Phineas uncovered your keying spell on the sword, it was simple enough to duplicate on our own."

"Muggles? There are no muggles anymore, nor wizards; we're all the same," Alyssa protested, disregarding everything said about the Gates and the keys. This proved to be, perhaps, the wrong thing to say, for the woman's face darkened even as the first flickers of a pale orange aura danced across her shoulders.

"There are and will always be muggles, as there are and will always be wizards! Our memories are pure; yours grow muddy with death. Our ascension is natural; yours requires another's aid. Our ghosts are pristine; yours corrode into soul-eating monsters. There is all the difference in the world between us, and yet it is _you_ who rule this afterlife and all that is in it! _You_ sit in council, _you_ lead the squadrons, and as for those wizards who sit and lead alongside you, hah! Traitors! Meek, spineless excuses for our kind, who allow former muggles to influence their actions rather than ruling _them_ as they ought!"

"Call Chief Tate or Chief Prescott meek and spineless to their faces," Davies suggested. "I'd like to see what they'd do to you for it."

"I might at that," the woman scoffed. "They cannot be so dangerous after all, relying on muggle weaponry and clumsy spells."

"And what do you rely on?" Alyssa asked, eyeing the woman's sheathed blade and lax hands.

The woman smiled dangerously, and answered simply.

"Power."

And with that, their surroundings exploded into light and motion.

* * *

Darksun waited for Harry to turn up.

He had to have negotiated his release, or else managed it himself in secret somehow. After all, Darksun had very little idea how much time had passed, only that it was a matter of some weeks at least, and even less knowledge as to what Harry had been up to in that time. Assuming that he had something to do with this was only logical, given the regrets he had stated for the situation; assuming he would be down for a visit posthaste was equally so.

Except that logic was crumbling the longer Darksun had to wait.

It had been an hour, perhaps an hour and a half since the seal had dissolved, and the blade hadn't seen hide or hair of his reaper. Stranger yet, the handful of times he had reached cautiously out to Harry, there had been an odd distance to the act, as though he was being forced to stretch for the connection. It wasn't quite a disconnect, but neither was it as easy as he had remembered.

Was it a lingering effect of the seals? Was Harry too busy to come? Should Darksun force himself to be patient this time rather than press the matter and somehow, once again, ruin everything?

He forced down his rising anxiety and paced wide circles around the central tree, glancing repeatedly at the brilliant blue sky.

Whatever was going on, at least Harry seemed happy.

No sooner had he thought this than the sunlight dimmed, as though briefly veiled by a cloud. The world shuddered as a violet shadow passed over it, and Darksun leapt into action as a small, familiar form suddenly appeared in midair and plummeted toward the ground.

"Seriously, kid, what is with this? Twice now, I've woken up from a long, forced nap only to snatch _you_ out of the sky," Darksun said as he settled Harry's unconscious body in the long grass. Harry, being completely out of it at the time, didn't answer.

"I suppose you can't tell me what's going on, can you?"

It was a rhetorical question. Darksun dearly wished it didn't have to be.

"So, what now? Do I stay in here with you and just wait for you to wake up? I mean, I'd just resolved to keep that damn promise I made – what, a year ago now? – and _not _mess with anything up there without permission, but now I don't know if you need help or not and you aren't awake enough for me to ask it. Seriously, do you have to make things so difficult?"

Darksun broke off his growing tirade with a sharp huff and both hands scrubbing at his bright orange hair. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and felt the dimmed, fuzzy sunlight on his face.

He was going to take that oath seriously, _really_ seriously, as in rigid-to-the-point-of-moral-_law_ seriously. How could he even contemplate breaking it yet again only just after he was released from the consequences of his last and most extreme infraction of that very promise? Were the circumstances this time just so unusual and exclusive that any action, even that, was truly for the best? Or was he just hopeless and doomed to make the same terrible mistakes over and over again?

He just didn't know.

* * *

Lily woke first, creeping back into consciousness around an aching head and a general sensation of disorientation. She stirred, but didn't groan, and blearily opened her eyes to unfamiliar yet dishearteningly recognizable surroundings.

She was in a cell. Three walls of solid stone, one set with close iron bars and a locked door. Her son and husband were both sprawled out on the floor beside her, glasses askew and limbs akimbo. Of the two, only James showed any signs of movement, his eyes flickering rapidly under their lids.

"Oh, you're up."

Lily dragged herself upright and glared through the bars at the tall, thin man standing beyond them.

"Phineas. What..."

"This wasn't meant to happen, you know," Phineas said, shrugging regretfully. "We were supposed to get the key – and we did, thank you – and then wait for your boy to go back to Hogwarts. He'd be safe and sound there, the loyalists would take the Center, and the whole mess would be cleaned up well before Wednesday. Instead...well, you know that bit."

"There's no reason to attack the Center, though! They've never done anything to us."

"They've hoarded control of the Gates and, through them, our ultimate purpose in this afterlife. One can only take so many decades of failure before one turns toward the materials that cannot be synthesized or duplicated without thorough knowledge of them. At least, that was my reason. I'm afraid Calypso and most others simply want a more general control of affairs; distasteful and brutish, but ultimately useful. I could hardly have stormed the Center alone."

Lily couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she turned her attention to her boys. James was definitely waking up, though slowly, but Harry didn't so much as twitch.

"What was done to them?"

"A powerful sleeping spell. The structure of the spell does work somewhat akin to a potion; the only reason you woke before your husband is because he took the brunt of it from you. Typically those with a greater body mass shake off the effects first. Harry...might be under for a few hours. But don't worry; he'll be fine. No lasting effects. We should be able to let you all out of here by the time he awakens. If not, someone here will see you fed and cared for."

With that, Phineas nodded to her as though passing along a simple farewell in far more ordinary circumstances, turned on his heel, and marched away down the long corridor outside the cells. Lily lurched to her feet and rushed toward the bars.

"Phineas! Phineas, wait, you—"

She ran into a force like a physical wall, unable to grip the metal bars in her hands. Slapping it with her palm, she watched the invisible surface ripple and identified it as a high-level blocking spell: easy to pass through one way, hard to pass through the other. It didn't take a genius to realize which direction was which.

Leaving the bars, which were sure to be spelled with all kinds of counter-deathspell precautions, Lily returned to James and Harry's sides. Kneeling between them, she gripped James' hand and ran her fingers through Harry's messy bangs.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I had no idea. Still, I promise, we'll get you out of here, James and I."

She wasn't sure how they would manage it, though. None of them had their swords, and while Lily knew her spells she hadn't the mastery which a breakout would require. Perhaps if she and James combined their efforts and gave the magic and bars locking them in a good pounding, something would eventually give way.

Then, just as she felt James squeeze her hand and begin to open his eyes, her ears caught a faint rustling sound just outside the cell, accompanied by a young girl's hesitant whisper.

"Mrs. Potter?"

Lily sensed them abruptly, even as she whipped around and looked, wide-eyed, at the two children standing in the corridor. Their auras were very faint, but there was no excuse for not having caught them before...no excuse except for the familiar, silvery cloak which the girl was now stuffing into her pocket.

They were young, around Harry's age, dressed in sleepwear and bathrobes. The girl had a mass of bushy brown hair and an expression caught somewhere between determination and the uncertainty of someone out of their depth and in full knowledge of that fact. The boy, tall for his age, was a redhead with a faintly gobsmacked face, as though he had been so thoroughly and frequently surprised recently it had imprinted itself temporarily upon his features.

"My name is Hermione Granger. This is Ronald Weasley. We're friends of Harry's, Professor Dumbledore sent us, and we're here to help."

She drew a wand and Ron followed suit.

"Just tell us what to do."


End file.
